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The  Story  of 
Westminster  Abbey 


“ It  is 
country. 


■with  history  as  with  travelling  through  a great 
The  by-ways  are  often  the  most  pleasant 


From  pho.’o  S.  />.  Bolas  &•  Co. 


Henry  VII.  s Chapel. 


Frontispiece. 


The  Story  of 

Westminster  Abbey 

Being  some  Account  of  that  A?icient 
Foundation , its  Builders  and 
those  who  Sleep  therein. 


BY 

VIOLET  BROOKE-HUNT 

AUTHOR  OF 

“PRISONERS  IN  THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON,”  “LORD  ROBERTS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  & CO. 
1902 


Printed  by 

Ballantynk,  Hanson  &=  Co. 


Edinburgh 


INTRODUCTION 


Geoffrey’s  father  had  gone  to  be  the  representative  of 
the  Mother  Country  in  one  of  the  distant  Colonies,  and 
as  the  boy  had  “ more  brains  than  body,”  to  quote  his 
house-master,  his  parents  had  taken  him  with  them  for  a 
time,  making  a long  journey  first.  When  he  came  home 
to  go  to  Eton,  I found  him  a much-travelled  person, 
brimming  over  with  a host  of  new  ideas  and  impressions, 
though  otherwise  the  same  original  dreamy  boy  as  ever. 
The  inches  he  had  added  to  his  height  and  his  chest 
testified  to  the  success  of  the  experiment  on  that  score, 
while  it  was  evident  that  his  active  little  brain  and  his 
big  eyes  had  made  the  most  of  their  opportunities. 

“ I seemed  to  be  doing  lessons  all  day,”  he  confided  to 
me,  “ only  they  weren’t  lessons  out  of  a book,  and  they 
seemed  so  much  easier  to  remember.  I wish  I could 
always  learn  things  by  seeing  them  ! ” As  the  Christmas 
holidays  had  to  be  spent  in  London,  I took  Geoffrey  at 
his  word,  and  one  morning  we  wandered  down  to 
Westminster  Abbey  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  seeing 
the  Coronation  Chair.  Of  course  we  saw  a great  deal 
more,  and  one  visit  led  to  another. 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


“ It’s  not  a bit  like  a churchyard,  though  it  is  full  of 
monuments,”  was  Geoffrey’s  criticism  one  morning.  “ It 
is  just  a book  about  English  history  right  from  the  very 
beginning ; and  please  I want  you  to  write  it  all  down ; 
because  now  I’ve  seen  the  places  and  the  monuments 
and  the  figures,  I shall  understand  reading  about 
them.” 

I demurred,  but  Geoffrey  had  answers  for  most  of  my 
objections,  and  here  is  his  view  of  the  matter,  imparted 
to  me  in  fragments  and  at  intervals  during  the  day. 

“ It’s  not  only  what  I want,”  he  said,  “ but  I know 
some  of  the  boys  and  girls  where  father  is  would  like  it 
too,  especially  if  you  put  in  plenty  of  pictures.  You 
see  though  lots  of  them  have  never  been  over  here  at 
all,  they  always  call  England  home,  and  they  all  mean 
to  come  some  day.  And  of  course  when  they  do  come 
they  will  go  to  Westminster  Abbey,  because  it  partly  be- 
longs to  them.  I am  afraid  I can’t  explain  it  very  well, 
but  what  I mean  is  that  now  I have  learned  so  many 
new  things  about  the  Abbey,  I feel  as  if  I understood 
ever  so  much  more  about  history ; not  the  dates  and  the 
Acts  of  Parliament  and  the  dull  parts,  but  the  kings  and 
the  queens  and  the  important  men  who  really  lived 
and  did  things.  And  all  those  people  must  belong  to 
every  one  who  is  English,  no  matter  where  they  live, 
mustn’t  they  ? So  if  you  put  them  all  into  a book, 
every  one  who  reads  it  will  know  what  to  go  and  look 


INTRODUCTION 


vii 

for  in  the  Abbey,  and  they  won’t  feel  quite  strange 
when  they  get  inside  the  doors,  because  they  will  see 
old  friends  all  around  them.” 

Geoffrey’s  remarks  were  suggestive,  to  say  the  least 
of  them,  and  as  he  spoke  I could  not  help  feeling  that 
there  were  other  boys  and  girls  besides  those  across  the 
seas,  and  possibly  some  grown-up  people  too,  who  would 
learn  to  better  know  and  love  the  Abbey,  with  its  eight 
hundred  years  of  unbroken  traditions,  if  they  could  read 
its  story  written  in  simple  language  and  told  in  a simple 
way. 

That  is  at  once  my  excuse  and  my  justification  for  a 
book  which  does  not  aspire  to  be  technical,  exhaustive, 
or  very  erudite.  Critics  will  find  plenty  to  criticise, 
especially  in  the  latter  part,  for  I am  well  aware  that 
with  such  a mass  of  material  to  draw  from,  much  has 
been  left  unsaid  that  is  nevertheless  full  of  interest. 
Many  events  have  of  necessity  been  crowded  into  a few 
lines,  when  a few  chapters  would  not  have  done  them 
justice,  while  I plead  guilty  to  having  dwelt  at  greater 
length  on  some  names  than  is  perhaps  warranted  by 
their  actual  position  in  history.  Broadly  speaking,  my 
desire  has  been,  firstly,  to  consider  the  Abbey  as  in- 
cluding the  Palace  of  Westminster,  and  to  weave  men 
and  events  connected  with  both  into  the  story  ; secondly, 
to  try  and  make  clear  how  wonderfully  representative, 
how  all-embracing,  is  this  glorious  old  Church,  with  its 


INTRODUCTION 


viii 

continual  reminder  to  us  that  though  former  things  may 
pass  away,  new  things  for  ever  spring  up  to  fill  the 
empty  places. 

Then  Geoffrey  had  his  favourites  and  I had  mine,  for 
both  of  us  in  our  different  ways  are  hero- worshippers, 
and  thus  has  our  selection  been  made. 

For  the  rest,  I can  only  feel  that,  despite  its  short- 
comings, the  book  will  not  altogether  fail  in  its  object 
if  it  makes  the  Abbey  a more  familiar  place  to  the  boys 
and  girls  of  the  Empire,  if  it  helps,  in  the  words  of 
Matthew  of  Paris,  “ to  keep  alive  the  memory  of  the 
good  in  the  past  generations,  for  the  which  all  sacred 
historians  have  striven,  from  Moses  down  to  the  deep- 
souled  chroniclers  of  the  years  in  which  we  ourselves 
are  living.” 

Many  are  the  books  to  which  I am  deeply  indebted, 
but  especially  would  I mention,  among  other  works, 
Dart’s  “History  of  the  Abbey  Church”  (1723),  Wid- 
more’s  “History  of  the  Church  of  St.  Peter”  (1750), 
Neale  and  Brayley  on  “ The  History  and  Antiquities  of 
the  Abbey”  (1818),  and  portions  of  the  Chronicles, 
Matthew  of  Paris,  Froissard,  and  Stowe.  Among 
modern  works  Dean  Stanley’s  “ Memorials  ” easily  takes 
the  first  place,  as  much  for  the  charm  of  its  style  as  for 
its  general  value  and  admirable  classification ; and  I am 
especially  obliged  to  Mr.  John  Murray,  the  publisher, 
for  allowing  me  to  use  two  of  the  copyright  plans  from 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


this  book.  Stanley’s  “ Sermons  on  Special  Occasions  ” 
are  also  so  closely  connected  with  Westminster  Abbey 
that  I have  found  them  very  suggestive. 

The  Deanery  Guide  is  invaluable,  and  contains  a 
storehouse  of  information  concisely  and  correctly  tabu- 
lated. No  one  should  go  round  the  Abbey  for  the  first 
time  without  this  excellent  little  work,  and  I gratefully 
acknowledge  the  assistance  it  has  been  to  me.  I must 
also  include  the  “Annals  of  Westminster  Abbey,”  by 
Mrs.  Murray  Smith ; “ Westminster  Abbey,”  by  W.  J. 
Loftie ; “Westminster,”  by  Sir  Walter  Besant,  and  “A 
Little  Guide  to  Westminster,”  by  E.  M.  Troutbeck. 

For  more  general  information  and  for  biography  I 
have  turned  to  the  standard  histories,  especially  to  Free- 
man’s “ Norman  Conquest,”  and  to  those  most  useful 
lists  of  authorities  given  in  the  “ Dictionary  of  National 
Biography.” 

VIOLET  BROOKE-HUNT. 


45  Albert  Gate,  S.W. 
February  1902. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS  IN  THE  ABBEY 


I.  In  the  Misty  Past  ...  3 

II.  The  Hallowing  of  the  Abbey  . . . .17 

III.  Saxons  and  Normans  at  Westminster  . . 33 

IV.  Through  Seven  Reigns 45 

V.  With  Kings  and  Queens  in  Edward’s  Shrine  . 61 

VI.  Edward  III.  and  Queen  Philippa.  . . .75 

VII.  Richard  II.  and  Queen  Anne  ....  85 

VIII.  Henry  V.  and  his  Chantry 99 

IX.  The  Wars  of  the  Roses  and  the  Third  Royal 

Builder 117 

X.  The  Abbey  and  the  Reformation  . . -133 

XI.  In  the  Chapel  of  Henry  VII 148 

XII.  From  the  Stuarts  to  Our  Own  Times  . . 167 


PART  II 

AMONG  THE  MONUMENTS 

XIII.  Puritans  and  Cavaliers  in  the  Abbey 

XIV.  Chaucer 

XV.  Spenser,  Addison,  and  the  Poets’  Corner 

XVI.  Garrick,  Doctor  Johnson,  and  Sheridan 

XVII.  Thd  Musicians  in  the  Abbey 
XVIII.  WlLBERFORCE  AND  HIS  FELLOW- WORKERS 

XIX.  Pitt  and  the  Statesmen’s  Corner 

XX.  Lawrence  and  the  Indian  Heroes 

XXI.  Dickens,  Browning,  and  Tennyson 

XXII.  A Last  Wander  Around 


185 

202 

214 

236 

255 

267 

288 

3°9 

325 

344 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Henry  VII.’s  Chapel  .....  Frontispiece 


Vaulting  in  Henry’s  VII.’s  Chapel 

The  Coneessor’s  Funeral,  prom  the  Bayeux 

To  face 

page 

3 

Tapestry  

24 

St.  Edmund’s  Chapel 

ji 

JJ 

36 

Picture  and  Tapestry  in  the  Sanctuary 

5? 

47 

The  Confessor’s  Chapel 

?? 

y> 

59 

Tombs  op  Edward  I.  and  Henry  III. 

„ 

6i 

Entrance  to  the  Chapter  House  . 

?? 

67 

The  Coronation  Chair  ..... 

„ 

69 

Pyx  Chapel 

?? 

70 

Tombs  op  Richard  II.  and  Edward  III. 

>> 

84 

Henry  of  Lancaster  Crowned  at  Westminster 

„ 

97 

Henry  V.’s  Tomb 

>> 

112 

Plan  op  Tombs  in  the  Chapel  op  the  Kings 

?> 

116 

Gates  op  Henry  VII.’s  Chapel 

>> 

131 

Plan  op  Chapel  op  Henry  VII. 

„ 

„ 

x33 

Tomb  op  Queen  Elizabeth  .... 

55 

154 

Interior,  looking  East 

>> 

T) 

161 

Jerusalem  Chamber 

» 

A 

170 

Prince  Rupert 

5? 

185 

Oliver  Cromwell 

•n 

200 

Chaucer’s  Tomb 

5) 

214 

Poets’  Corner 

J J 

227 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  

236 

XI 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


xii 


George  Frederick  Handel 

David  Livingstone  .... 

Charles  Darwin 

To  face  page  255 
» ‘ „ 276 

„ „ 286 

William  Pitt,  First  Earl  op  Chatham 

» 296 

Rt.  Hon.  Warren  Hastings 

>>  ))  3IQ 

West  Transept 

» „ 321 

Lord  Tennyson 

n )>  337 

The  High  Altar 

» ,,  352 

ERRATUM. 


Page  99,  line  \,for  1388  read  1399. 


Westminster  Abbey. 


A 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


xii 

George  Frederick  Handel  ....  To  face  page  255 

David  Livingstone  ....  „ • „ 276 

Charles  Darwin „ „ 286 

William  Pitt,  First  Earl  of  Chatham  . „ .,  296 

Rt.  Hon.  Warren  Hastings  ....„„  310 

West  Transept „ ,,321 


PART  I 

WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS  IN 
THE  ABBEY 


A 


From  photo  5.  B.  Bolas  Cr  Co. 


Vaulting  in  Henry  VII. ’s  Chapel. 


THE  STORY  OF 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


CHAPTER  I 
IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 

“ Without  the  walles  of  London,  uppon  the  river 
Thames,  there  was  in  Times  past,  a little  monasterie, 
builded  to  the  honour  of  God  and  St.  Peter,  with  a few 
Benedict  monkes  in  it,  under  an  Abbote  serving  Christe. 
Very  poore  they  were,  and  little  was  given  them  for 
their  reliefe.  Here  the  king  intended,  for  that  it  was 
near  to  the  famous  citie  of  London,  and  the  river  of 
Thames,  that  brought  in  all  kinds  of  merchandizes,  from 
all  partes  of  the  worlde,  to  make  his  sepulchre : he 
commanded  that  of  the  renters  of  all  his  rentes  the 
work  should  be  begunne,  in  such  a sorte,  as  should 
become  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles.” 

These  are  the  words  which  gather  up  the  early  story 
of  Westminster  Abbey. 

Try  to  forget  for  a few  moments  that  pile  of  splendid 
and  richly  decorated  buildings,  majestic  and  dignified 
in  its  beauty,  which  to-day  stands  out  so  clearly 


4 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


against  the  grey  of  London  skies  as  if  conscious  of  its 
right  to  be  regarded  as  the  most  wondrous  treasure 
belonging  to  London  City,  and  come  back  with  me  a 
journey  of  many  hundred  years,  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Abbey  as  it  appeared  to  the  boys  and  girls 
who  lived  under  Saxon  and  Danish,  English  and  Nor- 
man, Plantagenet  and  Tudor  kings.  For  only  so  will  you 
come  to  understand  how  the  history  of  the  Abbey  has 
been  interwoven  with  the  history  of  England  ; how,  in  days 
gone  by,  kings  and  nobles,  commons  and  people  gathered 
beneath  its  shadow,  making  it  not  only  the  centre  of 
the  nation’s  life  and  activity,  but  also  the  starting-point 
from  which  set  out  every  English  sovereign  called 
to  the  throne,  the  resting-place  to  which  so  many  of 
them  were  borne  back,  when  they  had  received  their 
summons  to  the  high  court  of  the  Great  King. 

Then  you  will  feel  something  more  than  a sense  of 
wonder  as  your  eyes  rest  on  its  beauties.  It  will  speak 
to  you  in  a language  of  its  own,  as  it  tells  you  of  that 
past  which  you  must  learn  to  know  aright  if  you  are  to 
play  your  part  nobly  in  present  or  in  future  days.  It 
will  open  your  ears  so  that  you  will  catch  echoes  of  the 
melodies  which  float  down  the  ages.  It  will  bring  to 
your  heart  a thrill  of  reverence  and  a thrill  of  pride,  as 
you  realise  that  this  treasure-house  of  memories  is  a 
national  inheritance  in  which  you  have  a share.  It  will 
make  you  familiar  with  that  company  of  men  and 
women  who,  by  reason  of  their  goodness  or  their  great- 
ness, or  their  many  gifts,  so  won  the  respect  of  their 
fellows,  that  iu  death  they  were  deemed  worthy  to  lie 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 


5 


within  walls  “ paved  with  princes  and  a royal  race.” 
And  it  will  teach  you,  as  no  book  can  teach  you,  the 
story  of  the  land  we  love,  the  land  which  all  the  great 
men  of  history — kings,  soldiers,  statesmen,  poets,  workers, 
and  thinkers  have  helped  to  build  up,  that  it  might  be 
ours  to  inherit  and  then  to  pass  on  to  coming  generations 
in  unsullied  greatness. 


Now  if  we  wish  to  trace  back  to  its  first  commence- 
ment that  “ little  monasterie  without  the  walles  of 
London,”  we  must  frankly  admit  that  concerning  its 
earliest  history  any  information  we  possess  is  of  a very 
shadowy  character.  Certain  it  is  that  for  some  cen- 
turies a religious  building  had  existed  on  Thorn-ea,  one 
of  those  many  little  islands  standing  above  the  reach  of 
the  floods  which  rose  at  high  tide  in  that  part  of  the 
Thames  where  it  broadened  out  into  a great  marsh. 
Possibly  the  Romans  had  a station  at  Thorn-ea,  as 
Roman  bricks  and  pieces  of  mosaic  and  such  remains  as 
a fine  Roman  coffin  have  been  discovered  from  time  to 
time,  and  Bede,  our  first  English  historian,  states  that 
Lucius,  king  of  Britain,  himself  a Christian,  built  a 
church  on  Thorney  Island  about  the  year  a.d.  178. 
For  nearly  four  hundred  years  England  had  remained 
the  conquered  province  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Then 
the  greatness  of  that  power  began  to  wane ; Rome  was 
threatened  at  her  own  doors  by  the  Goths,  and  to 
defend  herself  she  had  to  call  back  her  legions  from 
Britain  and  leave  the  island  to  its  fate.  Piets,  Scots, 
and  Saxons  bore  down  on  it,  and  the  Saxons,  “ fierce 


6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


beyond  other  foes,  cunning  as  they  are  fierce,  the  sea- 
wolves  that  live  on  the  pillage  of  the  world,  to  whom 
the  sea  is  their  school  of  war  and  the  storm  their 
friend,”  swept  all  before  them.  Wherever  they  went  on 
their  victorious  way  they  slaughtered  and  shattered, 
and  whatever  Christian  church  existed  on  Thornea  they 
razed  to  the  ground.  For  awhile  the  curtain  falls,  then 
it  rises  to  show  us  Sebert,  a Christian  king  of  the  East 
Saxons,  who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh 
century.  He  was  converted  and  baptized  by  Mellitus, 
the  Bishop  of  London,  and  founded  the  Minster  of  St. 
Paul  on  the  east  side  of  London.  But  in  years  to 
come,  when  Thornea  was  no  longer  a desolate  “ Isle  of 
Thorns  overrun  and  wild,”  but  the  spot  above  which 
there  towered  the  Abbey,  the  Palace  and  the  Monastery 
all  grouped  together  under  the  name  of  the  West 
Minster  Foundation,  the  monks  declared  that  King 
Sebert  had  raised  a second  church  in  this  very  place, 
dedicated  to  St.  Peter,  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles. 
Furthermore  they  told  how  one  dark  and  stormy 
Sunday  night,  the  eve  of  the  day  set  apart  by  Bishop 
Mellitus  for  the  consecration  of  the  new  church,  Edric,  a 
fisherman  busy  at  his  craft,  heard  a voice  calling  him 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  He  went  across  in 
his  boat,  and  found  there  a stranger,  who  begged  to  be 
rowed  over  to  the  island.  This  Edric  did  with  some 
difficulty,  as  the  waters  were  rough,  and  raised  with 
“ prodigious  rains,”  and  the  stranger,  landed  safely  on 
the  island,  at  once  went  towards  the  newly  builded 
church.  “ Watch  well  this  night,  Edric,”  he  said  as  he 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 


7 


left  the  astonished  fisherman.  So  Edric  waited  and 
watched,  and  in  the  space  of  a few  moments  he  saw  the 
empty  church  ablaze  with  light,  standing  out  without 
darkness  or  shadow  in  the  wild  night.  Voices,  such  as 
he  had  never  heard  before,  sang  chants  and  hymns : — 

“Yonder  swelled  that  strain, 

And  still  the  Bride  of  God,  that  Church  late  dark, 

Glad  of  her  saintly  sponsors  laughed  and  shone, 

The  radiance  ever  freshening.  . . . 

The  fisher  knew  that  hour 

That  with  vast  concourse  of  the  sons  of  God 

That  Church  was  thronged.” — Aubrey  de  Verb. 

Then  the  lights  faded,  the  music  died  away,  and  once 
more  the  stranger  stood  at  Edric’s  side. 

“ Give  me  to  eat,”  he  asked  of  him. 

But  Edric  had  as  yet  caught  nothing. 

“Cast  forth  thy  nets,  for  the  Fisherman  of  Galilee 
hath  blessed  thee,”  said  the  stranger,  and  then  he  added, 
“ Tell  Mellitus  on  the  morrow  what  you  have  seen,  and 
show  him  the  token  that  I,  Peter,  have  consecrated  mine 
own  church  at  Westminster.  For  yourself,  go  out  into 
the  river ; of  fish  you  shall  catch  plenty,  and  many 
salmon.  But  the  tenth  of  all  you  take,  you  shall  pay 
to  my  church,  and  never  again  shall  you  seek  to  catch 
fish  on  any  Sunday.” 

With  these  words  the  stranger  vanished,  leaving  Edric 
to  ponder  on  the  wonderful  things  he  had  seen  and 
heard. 

On  the  morrow,  when  Bishop  Mellitus,  accompanied 
by  his  priests  and  singing-boys,  arrived  to  dedicate  with 


8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


all  such  honour  as  he  could  the  Minster  of  Thorney,  he 
was  met  by  Edric,  who  held  in  his  hand  a salmon,  and 
gave  the  message  which  had  been  delivered  to  him. 
Furthermore,  he  pointed  out  to  him  the  marks  of  the 
twelve  crosses  of  consecration,  in  memory  of  the  twelve 
Apostles,  on  the  church  within  and  without.  And  the 
Bishop  believed  his  words,  for  he  saw  everywhere  the 
signs ; so  he  went  from  the  church  saying : “ The  dedi- 
cation had  been  performed  sufficiently,  better  and  in  a 
more  saintly  fashion  than  he  could  have  done.”  So  he 
held  a service  of  thanksgiving  for  this  token  of  heavenly 
favour,  and  then  made  his  way  back  to  London,  to  enjoy 
with  a good  conscience  the  fish  which  Edric  had  pre- 
sented to  him. 

Quaint  and  picturesque  as  is  the  legend,  it  is  clearly 
nothing  but  a legend,  told  by  the  monks  of  St.  Peter’s 
for  various  reasons,  the  most  probable  being  that  they 
were  anxious  to  prove  their  superiority  over  the  monks 
of  St.  Paul’s.  It  is  not  even  a certainty  that  King 
Sebert  played  any  part  at  all  in  the  history  of  Thorney 
Island,  for  in  several  of  the  oldest  chronicles  we  are  told 
about  “ a dweller  or  citizen  of  London  by  name  Sebert 
who  was  excyted  to  make  a church  in  the  worship  of 
St.  Peter  in  the  West  End  of  London,  which  that  time 
was  foregrowen  with  bushes  and  bryeres  exceedynglye.” 
But,  on  the  whole,  I think  we  may  allow  the  monks  to 
keep  King  Sebert  as  their  founder,  and  accept  the  story 
that  he  and  his  queen  were  buried  in  leaden  coffins 
in  this  early  church,  that  their  bodies  were  removed  to 
the  restored  church  more  than  four  hundred  years  later, 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 


9 


and  once  again,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.,  were  taken 
from  their  resting-place  to  be  laid  with  great  ceremony 
in  the  tomb  which  now  you  can  see  just  inside  the 
south  ambulatory  of  the  Abbey. 

A century  later  we  find  something  tangible  concern- 
ing the  Church  and  Monastery  of  St.  Peter ; for  Offa, 
the  wise  and  strong  king  of  Mercia,  made  certain  gifts 
to  it,  and  in  the  charter  of  785  a.d.  confirming  these, 
he  spoke  of  Thorney  Island  as  a “ locus  terribilis,”  by 
which  he  probably  meant  “ a sacred  spot.”  But  after 
this  again  there  is  silence.  Once  more  Britain  lay  at 
the  mercy  of  the  invaders,  this  time  the  fierce  Danes, 
who,  as  the  Saxons  had  done,  swept  ruthlessly  over  the 
land,  devastating  and  destroying  as  they  went.  The 
church  at  Thorney  was  in  far  too  conspicuous  a position 
to  escape  their  notice  ; they  fell  upon  it  in  all  their 
fury,  and  only  a few  of  the  monks  managed  to  reach 
London  alive.  So  were  the  buildings  “ reduced  to  a 
very  mean  and  low  condition.” 

In  time,  however,  the  hand  of  the  Dane  was  stayed. 
For  a hundred  years  indeed  had  they  held  their  sway  of 
terror,  till  at  last  they  were  decisively  beaten  by  Alfred 
of  Wessex,  that  ideal  warrior-king,  who  first  freed  his 
people  from  their  oppressors,  and  afterwards,  laying 
aside  all  personal  ambition,  devoted  himself  to  the  task 
of  ruling  them  wisely  and  well. 

The  Peace  of  Wedmore  was  signed  in  875,  and 
probably  the  church  and  monastery  of  St.  Peter  were 
rebuilt  soon  after,  but  we  know  nothing  till  we  come  to 
the  days  when  Dunstan  was  made  Bishop  of  London, 


10  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and  “ prevailed  easily  with  King  Edgar  (as  indeed  he 
did,  and  ordered  all  in  Church  matters  during  the  reign 
of  that  Prince),  to  have  the  monastery,  then  in  ruins, 
restored,  and  that  too  at  the  king’s  expense ; that  is, 
the  walls  and  what  else  remained  of  the  ruins  repaired 
and  the  place  made  habitable.  And  he  brought  hither 
from  Glastonbury  twelve  monks  to  make  it  a small 
monastery  of  the  Benedictine  Order.”  Dunstan  had 
grown  up  from  childhood  under  the  shadow  of  that 
famous  monastery  at  Glastonbury,  where  he  had  been 
the  pupil  of  the  well-learned  and  deeply  religious  men 
who  had  come  over  there  from  Ireland,  and  when  at 
last,  after  many  years  of  varied  fortunes,  he  found 
himself  all-powerful,  he  made  it  hi3  first  object  to 
introduce  the  strict  Benedictine  rule  wherever  it  was 
possible  in  religious  houses.  For  during  the  time  when 
the  Danes  held  the  upper  hand  the  people  had  fallen 
back  into  many  heathen  ways,  and  the  priests  no 
longer  held  the  torch  of  Christ’s  religion  on  high,  or 
sought  to  lead  men  from  darkness  to  light.  Dunstan 
was  full  of  zeal,  and  under  his  strong  influence  King 
Edgar  made  many  grants  of  lands  and  provisions  to 
the  Abbey  of  St.  Peter,  in  which  place  Wulsinus,  also  a 
monk  from  Glastonbury,  reigned  as  Abbot. 

But  once  again  the  monks  of  Thorney  Island  were 
driven  forth  from  their  cells  and  their  cloisters,  this  time 
also  at  the  hands  of  the  Danes,  who,  led  by  Sweyn, 
“ marched  through  the  land,  lighting  war  beacons  ” as 
they  went  on  their  way,  avenging  the  treacherous 
massacre  of  their  fellow-countrymen  in  Wessex. 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST  n 

King  Ethelred,  the  Unready,  offered  no  resistance  to 
the  Danes,  but  let  every  city  save  London  fall  into 
their  hands,  and  then  fled  from  his  kingdom,  leaving 
Sweyn  on  the  throne.  However,  in  Canute,  the  son  of 
Sweyn,  there  arose  a friend  to  what  remained  of  the 
religious  house  on  Thorney,  for  he,  “ of  a usurper  being 
none  of  the  worst,”  as  an  old  writer  cautiously  admits, 
conceived  a great  affection  for  a good  monk,  Wulnoth, 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  the  monastery  there. 
When  he  became  king,  Canute  raised  Wulnoth  to  the 
position  of  Abbot,  granted  many  favours  to  him  and 
his  house,  and  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  built  for 
himself  a dwelling-place  at  Thorney  so  as  to  be  near 
Wulnoth,  whose  conversation  pleased  him,  the  Abbot 
being  a man  of  singular  sincerity.  It  was  a rest  to 
him  to  turn  from  the  cares  and  responsibilities  of  his 
kingdom  to  the  peaceful  simple  life  of  the  Benedictine 
house.  God  had  called  him  to  the  camp  and  the 
court,  and  he  had  vowed  never  to  spare  himself  in  what 
was  good  or  needful  for  his  people.  But  in  his  latter 
days  it  was  the  calm  of  the  cloister  that  he  loved. 
Nothing  remains  of  the  palace  he  built  there,  save  the 
record  that  it  was  burned  down  in  a later  reign, 
but  it  is  probable  that  the  well-known  incident  of  the 
courtiers  and  the  tide  took  place  on  Thorney  Isle. 

Canute  was  but  forty  when  he  died,  and  with  him 
died  the  peace  which  had  been  such  a blessing  to  his 
people  while  he  reigned.  For  he  left  three  sons,  and 
between  two  of  these,  Harold  and  Hardicanute,  there  was 
sharp  strife  as  to  who  should  become  king  of  England. 


i2  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


First  they  divided  the  land,  then  Harold  became  sole 
king.  But  three  years  later  he  died,  and  was  buried  in 
the  Church  of  St.  Peter,  under  the  shadow  of  the  walls 
his  father  had  loved  so  well.  From  thence,  however, 
his  fierce  brother  Hardicanute  dragged  forth  his  body 
and  had  it  thrown  into  the  Thames  hard  by. 

Such  a deed  as  this  stamps  the  man,  and  shows  him 
as  he  was,  cruel,  revengeful,  and  fierce.  His  people 
suffered  many  things  at  his  hands,  and  when  he  died  of 
hard  drinking  at  the  end  of  two  years,  there  was  a great 
longing  throughout  the  land  to  shake  off  the  last  trace 
of  a Danish  yoke  and  to  have  for  king  one  of  their  own 
race.  Their  hearts  turned  towards  Edward,  the  younger 
son  of  Ethelred  the  Unready,  whose  life  hitherto  had 
been  chiefly  spent  in  Normandy,  whither  he  with  his 
mother,  Emma  of  Normandy,  afterwards  the  wife  of 
Canute,  had  taken  refuge  when  Sweyn  had  conquered 
England.  Little  did  they  know  of  him,  save  that  he 
was  of  their  blood,  and  had  been  exiled  from  his  land 
and  his  birthright  by  a foreign  foe.  But  his  face  was 
gentle,  like  that  of  a woman,  with  white  skin,  pink 
cheeks,  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair ; his  voice  was  low, 
his  manner  serious  and  kind,  his  ways  were  simple  and 
he  had  a reputation  for  great  holiness. 

Earl  Godwine,  the  all-powerful  noble  who  had  served 
under  Canute  and  had  vainly  endeavoured  to  restrain 
his  sons,  was  at  one  with  the  people  of  England  in 
this  matter,  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  “ before  King 
Hardicanute  buried  were,  all  folk  chose  Edward  to  king 
at  London.”  For  awhile  Edward  hesitated.  A throne 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 


13 


had  no  attractions  for  him,  and  he  was  almost  a stranger 
to  English  manners  and  English  life.  But  Godwine, 
who  had  gone  out  to  Normandy  as  the  bearer  of  the 
message  from  the  people,  over-persuaded  him  and 
brought  him  back.  The  Witan  met  at  Gillingham  in 
Dorset  to  confirm  the  choice  of  the  citizens  of  London, 
and  Edward  was  crowned  in  Winchester  Cathedral  on 
Easter  Day  with  great  ceremony,  many  foreign  princes 
and  ambassadors  being  present  to  do  him  honour. 

Almost  the  first  work  of  the  new  king  was  to  build 
himself  a palace,  and  the  site  he  chose  was  one  close 
to  the  little  Benedictine  monastery  at  Thorney  Isle, 
which  now  was  always  called  Westminster,  a place  no 
longer  covered  with  brambles,  but  well  cultivated  by  the 
monks,  who  were  skilled  tillers  of  the  soil,  and  rendered 
green  and  fertile  by  the  river  which  flowed  hard  by. 
Of  the  palace  as  he  built  it  no  traces  are  left  to  us,  it 
having  been  all  destroyed  by  fire,  but  we  know  it  was 
made  very  strong,  guarded  by  outer  and  inner  walls 
fashioned  after  the  manner  of  a Norman  castle,  pro- 
bably nearly  resembling  the  Council  Chamber  and  Ban- 
queting Hall  which  still  remain  in  the  Tower  of  London, 
little  altered  since  the  day  when  the  early  Norman 
builders  completed  their  work.  The  Abbot  of  West- 
minster at  this  time  was  Eadwine,  a very  prudent 
man,  and  he  soon  attracted  the  notice  of  the  king,  who 
was  by  nature  far  more  fit  to  rule  a monastery  than 
a kingdom.  Edward  was  troubled  somewhat  in  his 
mind,  for  when  an  exile  in  Normandy,  he  had  taken  a 
vow  that  should  it  ever  please  God  to  restore  him  to  his 


i4  THE  STORY  OE  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


rightful  inheritance,  lie  would  go  on  a pilgrimage  to 
Rome  to  do  honour  to  St.  Peter  there ; but  now  that  he 
was  safely  established  on  the  throne,  his  council  made 
strong  objections  to  his  leaving  the  country,  lest  some 
evil  should  befall  him  or  the  Danes  should  take  ad- 
vantage of  his  absence  to  invade  the  land,  while  “ the 
common  people,  publicly  and  with  tears,  showed  their 
concern,  entreating  him  to  desist  from  so  dangerous  a 
voyage.”  Thus  the  king  knew  not  how  to  act,  desiring 
ardently  to  carry  out  his  vow,  and  yet  being  unwilling 
to  disregard  the  wishes  of  his  people.  Possibly  it  was 
Eadwine,  living  as  he  did  so  near  to  the  king’s  new 
palace  as  to  be  often  consulted  by  him,  who  proposed  as 
a way  out  of  the  difficulty  that  a Bishop,  with  a fitting 
retinue,  should  be  sent  as  an  ambassador  to  Pope  Leo, 
to  explain  to  him  how  Edward  was  restrained  from 
journeying  thither  himself,  and  to  ask  for  a dispensation. 
This  proposal  was  quickly  carried  into  action. 

Pope  Leo  readily  absolved  the  king  from  his  vow, 
desiring  that  instead  he  should  build  or  restore  some 
monastery  to  the  honour  of  St.  Peter,  and  make  over 
to  the  relief  of  the  poor  such  a sum  of  money  as  his 
journey  would  have  cost  him. 

Edward  was  wonderfully  pleased  at  the  Pope’s  mes- 
sage, and  resolved  to  begin  at  once  a building  worthy 
of  the  great  Apostle.  What  more  natural  than  that 
he  should  choose  the  little  monastery  at  Westminster, 
which  was  very  poor  ? It  lay  near  to  the  city  of  London, 
and  to  that  great  river  up  and  down  which  there  was 
so  much  coming  and  going  of  ships.  It  lay  near  also 


IN  THE  MISTY  PAST 


15 


to  his  own  palace,  and  if  the  present  humble  buildings 
gave  place  to  such  an  edifice  as  he  intended  to  raise, 
where  could  a more  suitable  burying-place  for  himself 
be  found  when  the  time  came  for  God  to  call  him  hence  ? 
Then,  too,  Abbot  Eadwine  found  great  favour  in  bis  eyes  ; 
and  the  monks  there,  under  the  strict  rule  of  St.  Benedict, 
had  won  for  themselves  a good  report  concerning  the 
simplicity  and  holiness  of  their  lives.  So  it  seemed 
fitting  that  Westminster  should  be  raised  from  its  lowly 
state  and  be  refashioned  in  a manner  worthy  of  the  saint 
whose  name  it  bore. 

Just  at  this  time,  too,  Wulsinus,  an  aged  and  saintly 
monk  at  Worcester,  had  a wondrous  story  to  tell  of  a 
sacred  vision  vouchsafed  to  him,  in  which  St.  Peter  had 
appeared  bidding  him  to  deliver  this  message  to  the  king. 
“ There  is,”  declared  the  Apostle,  “ a place  of  mine  in 
the  west  of  London,  which  I chose  and  love,  the  name 
of  it  being  Thorney  : which  having  for  the  sins  of  the 
people  been  given  to  the  power  of  the  barbarians,  from 
rich  is  become  poor,  from  stately  low,  and  from  honour- 
able is  made  despicable.  This  let  the  king  by  my  com- 
mand restore  and  make  a dwelling  of  monks,  stately  built 
and  well  endowed,  for  it  shall  be  no  less  than  the  House 
of  God  and  the  Gate  of  Heaven.” 

The  vision  was  made  known  to  Edward,  and  shortly 
afterwards  he  commanded  that  a tenth  of  his  entire 
substance,  gold,  silver,  cattle,  and  all  other  possessions, 
should  be  set  aside  for  the  purpose  of  pulling  down 
the  old  church  and  raising  a new  one  from  the  very 
foundation. 


1 6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


So  from  this  time  the  story  of  the  Abbey  passes  from 
misty  legend  into  proven  history,  and  it  is  with  Edward, 
named  afterwards  “ the  Confessor,”  that  the  glory  must 
rest  of  having  called  into  being  that  great  religious 
house,  destined  in  the  future  to  be  most  closely  linked 
with  all  that  concerned  alike  the  crown  and  the 
country. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY 

King  Edward  had  no  sooner  resolved  on  the  site  for 
his  new  Abbey  Church,  than  he  commenced  the  task 
of  building  it,  pressing  on  the  work  with  zealous  eager- 
ness, making  it  indeed  the  object  of  his  life.  In  his 
character  he  lacked  all  those  qualities  which  go  to  the 
making  of  a great  kiug.  His  prayers  and  his  visions 
so  absorbed  him,  that  in  heart  and  mind  he  lived  in  the 
company  of  saints  and  angels,  and  the  duties  of  govern- 
ment were  altogether  irksome  to  him.  By  birth  partly 
Norman,  by  education  and  tastes  entirely  so,  he  knew 
but  little  of  the  people  over  whom  he  was  called  to  rule, 
and  wherever  it  was  possible  he  willingly  handed  over 
all  duties  of  government  to  others.  Fortunately  for 
himself  and  for  England,  there  were  two  men  ever  at 
his  side,  who  served  both  him  and  his  people  loyally  and 
well,  these  being  Earl  Godwine  and  his  second  son,  Harold, 
Earl  of  the  East  Saxons.  Both  were  related  to  him,  for 
Godwine  was  the  father  and  Harold  the  brother  of  Lady 
Eadgytha,  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  wife  of  the 
king,  and  both  showed  themselves  to  be  rulers  wise,  just, 
and  merciful. 


17 


B 


1 8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Of  the  two,  Harold  was  the  more  beloved  by  king 
and  country  alike  ; indeed,  one  chronicler  of  that  time 
boldly  says  that  Edward’s  greatest  claim  to  glory  lies 
in  the  fact  that  he  called  Harold  to  the  government  of 
his  realm.  Tall  of  stature,  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 
he  excelled  in  all  things,  whether  in  the  battle-field  or  at 
the  council,  and  to  his  many  gifts  was  added  a noble 
and  upright  character,  strong  when  the  need  for  strength 
arose,  but  ever  inclined  to  show  mercy  and  compassion. 
This  was  the  man  on  whose  shoulders  Edward  virtually 
laid  all  the  responsibilities  of  his  realm,  while  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  his  palace  at  Westminster,  so  that 
he  might  be  on  the  spot  to  superintend  the  progress 
of  the  building,  which  went  on  apace,  and  to  consult 
with  Abbot  Edwy  as  to  the  form  it  should  take.  It 
was  on  the  church  itself,  rather  than  on  the  buildings 
of  the  monastery,  that  the  king  lavished  his  especial 
care.  He  meant  it  to  be  in  the  “ new  style,”  which 
he  had  learnt  to  love  during  his  exile  in  Normandy,  that 
land  from  which  came  forth  those  master-builders,  many 
of  them  priests  and  scholars,  whose  handiwork  is  still  to 
be  found  alike  in  Norman  and  in  English  minsters,  beau- 
tiful as  ever  in  its  strength,  its  simplicity,  and  its  dignity. 
Many  were  the  Norman  customs  and  ideas  which  Edward 
brought  over  with  his  Norman  friends,  and  some  of  them 
were  vigorously  opposed  by  Harold,  who  was  passionately 
English. 

But  as  we  go  through  the  country  and  find  one  after 
another  of  those  majestic  buildings  in  grey  stone,  made 
so  perfect  as  to  defy  the  centuries,  we  must  gratefully 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY 


19 


remember  that  it  was  King  Edward  who  first  of  all 
set  up  this  “ new  style  ” as  a model  in  our  midst. 

One  characteristic  was,  that  every  great  church 
should  be  built  in  the  form  of  a cross ; in  the  centre 
the  nave,  at  the  east  end  the  High  Altar,  and  where 
the  nave  merged  into  the  choir  cross  arms  on  the  right 
and  on  the  left,  and  so  it  was  that  Westminster  was  the 
first  cruciform  church  in  England. 

This  is  a description  of  Edward’s  building,  given  to 
us  in  a French  Life  of  the  king,  written  very  shortly 
after  his  death  : — 

“ Now  he  laid  the  foundations  of  the  church 
With  large  square  blocks  of  grey  stone. 

Its  foundations  are  deep, 

The  front,  towards  the  east  he  makes  round, 

The  stones  are  very  strong  and  hard. 

In  the  centre  rises  a tower 
And  two  at  the  western  front, 

And  fine  and  large  bells  he  hangs  there. 

The  pillars  and  mouldings 
Are  rich  without  and  within. 

At  the  basis  and  the  capitals 
The  work  rises  grand  and  royal. 

Scrrlptured  are  the  stones 
And  storied  the  windows. 

All  are  made  with  the  skill 
Of  good  and  loyal  workmanship. 

And  when  he  finished  the  work, 

He  covers  the  church  with  lead. 

He  makes  then  a Cloister,  and  Chapter-House  in  front, 
Towards  the  east,  vaulted  and  round, 

Where  his  ordained  ministers 
May  hold  their  secret  Chapter, 

Prater  and  dorter, 

And  the  officers  round  about.” 


20  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Considering  the  size  of  Edward’s  building,  for  it  was 
very  little  if  any  smaller  than  the  Abbey  as  we  know 
it  to-day,  it  is  unlikely  that  all  the  parts  described  by 
the  French  chronicler  were  finished  during  the  life- 
time of  the  king.  Indeed,  the  royal  builder  seems 
to  have  known  that  his  eyes  would  never  rest  on  his 
work,  perfected  as  he  dreamt  of  it.  His  longing  there- 
fore was  that  church  and  choir  might  be  completed 
and  dedicated,  and  for  the  rest  he  made  such  munificent 
gifts  in  land  and  money,  plate  and  jewels  to  the 
Abbot,  that  he  had  no  fear  but  that  the  building  of 
the  monastery  with  its  cloisters  and  dormitories,  in- 
firmary and  refectory,  would  be  easily  accomplished, 
even  if  he  did  not  live  to  see  it. 

Signs  were  not  wanting  to  warn  him  that  the  hour 
of  his  death  was  near  at  hand.  He  had  ever  firmly 
believed  in  dreams  and  visions,  and  of  late  these  had 
been  full  of  solemn  meaning  to  him.  He  had  seen 
the  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesus  turning  from  their  right 
sides  to  their  left,  and  this  he  judged  to  be  an  omen 
which  told  of  a great  upheaval,  of  wars,  pestilence,  and 
famine,  which  should  last  for  seventy  years.  Then, 
too,  the  Christ  Child  had  appeared  to  him  as  he  stood 
near  the  High  Altar  in  the  newly  finished  choir,  and 
had  told  him  how  soon  he  was  to  be  called  hence. 
And,  most  wonderful  of  all,  two  pilgrims,  just  returned 
from  the  Holy  Land,  came  to  the  king  with  a strange 
story. 

Some  time  before,  Edward  was  on  his  way  to  the 
dedication  of  a church  he  had  built  to  St.  John  the 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY  21 


Evangelist,  when  he  passed  a beggar  who  pleaded  with 
him  for  his  charity  in  the  name  of  the  Apostle  of 
Love.  The  king  carried  no  money  with  him,  and  his 
much-loved  Chamberlain,  Hugolin,  was  not  at  hand. 
Yet  so  tender-hearted  was  Edward  that  he  could  not 
pass  the  beggar  by,  and  he  took  from  his  hand  a ring, 
“ large,  royal,  and  beautiful.”  The  beggar  took  it  and 
vanished.  But  these  two  pilgrims  told  how  while  they 
were  in  Syria  and  in  great  straits,  having  wandered 
from  their  path,  an  old  man  with  a long,  white  beard, 
carrying  two  lighted  tapers,  stood  in  their  pathway 
and  questioned  them.  When  they  spoke  of  their 
country  and  their  king,  he  became  very  joyous,  and 
declared  how  great  a love  he  bore  to  Edward.  Further- 
more he  led  them  to  a hostel  hard  by,  told  them  that 
he  was  none  other  than  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
gave  them  the  ring,  bidding  them  to  take  it  back  to 
the  king,  with  the  assurance  that  in  half  a year  he 
should  stand  at  his  side  in  Paradise. 

Edward  accepted  the  story  with  childlike  simplicity. 
He  fasted  more  rigorously,  he  prayed  more  earnestly, 
and  he  decided  to  hasten  on  the  hallowing  of  his  church. 

The  Feast  of  Christmas  was  at  hand,  and  the  king 
summoned  the  Witan  for  the  first  time  to  Westminster,  that 
they  might  take  part  in  the  great  ceremony.  Little  did 
he  dream  how  through  the  centuries  to  come  Abbey  and 
Parliament  would  be  welded  together. 

On  Christmas  Day,  though  ill,  he,  wearing  his  crown, 
took  part  in  the  services,  and  was  present  at  the 
Christmas  banquet  in  the  palace.  He  conversed  with 


22  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


the  bishops  and  the  nobles,  and  appointed  the  feast  of 
the  Holy  Innocents  as  the  day  on  which  the  great  event 
for  which  he  had  so  longed  should  take  place. 

But  his  strength  began  to  rapidly  ebb  away,  and  all 
who  saw  him  knew  him  to  be  a dying  man.  Too  weak 
to  do  more  than  set  his  signature  to  the  charter  of  the 
foundation,  he  still  insisted  that  the  hallowing  should 
take  place.  Death  Held  no  terrors  for  him  ; it  was  but  the 
gate  through  which  he  must  pass  ere  he  could  join  that 
white-robed  host  of  saints  and  martyrs  whose  presence 
he  had  felt  so  near  to  him  through  life.  Only,  like 
Simeon  of  old,  there  was  one  thing  he  desired  before  he 
could  say,  “ Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart 
in  peace.”  Not  till  his  church  was  consecrated  would 
the  desire  of  his  heart  be  satisfied. 

By  his  bedside  stood  his  wife,  the  Lady  Eadgytha, 
herself  the  founder  of  a convent  church  at  Wilton.  In 
life  he  had  never  loved  her  overmuch  ; like  his  kingdom, 
she  occupied  a very  secondary  place  in  his  thoughts. 
But  womanlike  she  forgot  all  that  in  this  moment,  and 
thought  only  how  best  she  could  help  and  comfort  him. 
Calmly  she  carried  out  his  every  wish,  and,  acting  as  his 
representative,  went,  accompanied  by  her  two  brothers 
Harold  and  Garth,  to  the  consecration  of  the  Abbey 
Church  by  Stigand,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

“Magnificently  finished  was  the  church,”  says  an  old 
writer,  and  it  is  not  difficult  for  us  to  picture  what  took 
place  there  on  this  joyous  festival.  The  walls,  massive 
and  stately  in  their  simplicity,  gleamed  in  their  fresh- 
ness, and  formed  a vivid  contrast  to  the  colours  to  be 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY 


23 


found  in  the  vestments  of  the  bishops  and  the  priests, 
the  robes  of  the  acolytes  and  singing  boys,  the  distinctive 
dress  of  the  monks,  and  the  varied  costumes  of  nobles, 
both  Norman  and  Saxon,  who  were  assembled  there. 
The  lights  shone  on  the  High  Altar,  clouds  of  incense 
floated  around  it,  and  for  the  first  time  those  walls 
resounded  with  chant  and  hymn  and  solemn  antiphon. 

“ The  work  stands  finished,”  murmured  the  king  as 
the  echoes  of  the  music  floated  across  to  him. 

When  the  queen  returned  to  his  bedside,  he  lay 
unconscious,  and  she,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  tried  to 
restore  to  him  warmth  and  life.  But  for  many  days 
he  made  no  sign.  Then  suddenly,  on  the  last  day  of 
the  old  year,  came  the  final  flicker.  In  a voice  clear 
and  strong,  he  spoke  of  two  holy  monks,  and  all  that 
they  had  prophesied  to  him  concerning  the  disaster 
which  would  shortly  overthrow  the  land.  So  earnest 
were  his  words  that  they  struck  terror  into  the  hearts 
of  all  present ; only  Stigand,  the  Archbishop,  dared 
declare  that  the  king  babbled  in  delirium.  Yet  other 
things  did  Edward  bequeath  in  those  last  days.  To 
his  friend  the  Abbot  Eadwine  he  gave  his  body  with 
the  command  that  it  should  be  laid  in  the  Abbey 
Church,  and  to  Harold,  his  brother-in-law,  he  com- 
mended the  Lady  Eadgytha,  who  had  never  failed  in 
her  duty  towards  him,  and  to  whom  he  desired  all 
honour  should  be  accorded.  Neither  did  he  forget  his 
Norman  favourites,  who  had,  he  declared,  left  their 
native  land  for  love  of  him. 

Still  there  was  one  all-important  bequest  to  be  made, 


24  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and  in  that  moment  Edward  seemed  to  have  understood, 
as  he  had  never  understood  before,  the  hopes  and  long- 
ings of  his  people. 

“ To  thee,  Harold,  my  brother,  I commit  my  king- 
dom,” he  said  solemnly. 

Then  once  more  he  became  silent  till  near  the  end, 
when  he  turned  to  the  weeping  queen. 

“ Mourn  not,  my  daughter,”  he  said.  “ I shall  not 
die,  but  live.  For  passing  from  the  country  of  the 
dead,  I verily  hope  to  behold  the  good  things  of  the 
Lord  in  the  land  of  the  living.” 

So  he  fell  asleep ; and  to  him  St.  Peter  opened  the 
gate  of  Paradise,  and  St.  John,  his  own  dear  one,  led 
him  before  the  Divine  Majesty. 

The  grief  of  the  people  was  intense,  and  to  it  was 
added  a wild  terror  as  to  what  might  now  befall  the 
land.  Hurriedly,  as  if  in  a panic,  the  royal  funeral  took 
place  on  the  Feast  of  the  Epiphany,  but  one  day  after 
the  king  had  breathed  his  last,  and  the  Abbey  became 
the  scene  of  the  deepest  mourning.  Dirges  and  peni- 
tential psalms  filled  its  walls  instead  of  joyful  hymns 
of  praise  and  thanksgiving. 

Edward,  wrapped  around  in  beautiful  robes  embroi- 
dered by  Eadgytha  and  her  maidens,  and  wearing  the 
pilgrim’s  ring,  was  laid  in  royal  state  on  a bier,  and 
carried  by  eight  men  to  the  Abbey,  there  to  be  placed 
before  the  high  altar. 

“ Bishops,  and  a multitude  of  abbots,  priests,  and 
ecclesiastics,  with  dukes  and  earls  assembled  together. 
A crowd  of  monks  went  thither,  and  innumerable  bodies 


FROM  THE  BAYEUX  TAPESTRY. 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY 


25 


of  people.  Here  psalms  resound,  the  sighs  and  tears 
burst  out,  and  in  that  temple  of  chastity,  that  dwelling 
of  virtue,  the  king  is  honourably  interred  in  the  place 
appointed  by  himself.” 

So,  in  a halo  of  sanctity,  ended  the  life  and  reign  of 
Edward ; and  remembering  all  his  piety,  his  humility, 
the  nights  of  contrition  he  spent  on  the  cold  stones 
in  spite  of  his  wearing  sickness,  his  deep  reverence 
for  all  things  holy,  and  the  noble  gifts  he  made  to 
the  Church,  men  spoke  of  him  rather  as  a saint 
than  as  a king.  And  indeed  as  a ruler  he  left  but 
little  mark  on  his  times.  Yet  the  Abbey  Church  of 
Westminster  is  no  small  memorial  for  this  last  king 
of  the  Saxons  to  have  bequeathed  to  the  English  nation, 
and  for  that  alone  we  owe  him  a debt  of  gratitude  which 
lends  an  unfading  glory  to  his  name. 

Now,  you  will  be  wondering  how  much  of  the  Abbey 
Church  as  Edward  built  it,  stands  to-day.  And  alas ! 
there  is  but  little  of  it  left.  For  when  Henry  III.,  who 
had  a special  love  for  the  Confessor,  resolved  to  set  up 
some  worthy  memorial  of  this  “ glorious  king,”  he  pulled 
down  the  greater  part  of  the  simple,  stately  building 
Edward  had  so  loved,  and  set  up  in  its  place  a much 
more  ornate  and  magnificent  piece  of  work.  Edward 
built  to  the  honour  of  St.  Peter ; Henry,  to  the  memory 
of  St.  Edward.  But  generous  as  was  his  motive  in 
pulling  down  that  solid  Norman  building,  which  other- 
wise would  have  been  standing  firm  as  ever  to-day,  we 
cannot  help  regretting  those  vanished  Norman  arches 
and  massive  pillars. 


26  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


When  you  stand  by  tbe  altar  rails,  you  can  remember 
that  the  bases  of  the  pillars  on  either  side  of  the  altar 
are  those  belonging  to  Edward’s  church  ; or  if  you  go  from 
the  cloisters,  where  the  south  and  the  east  walks  join, 
into  the  little  cloisters,  you  will  pass  under  an  old  arch- 
way over  the  entrance,  always  known  as  the  Confessor’s 
door.  Underneath,  too,  what  used  to  be  the  ancient 
dormitory,  but  is  now  the  great  schoolroom  of  West- 
minster School,  some  very  massive  and  solid  buildings 
remain  which  evidently  date  from  Edward,  and  there  is 
also  again  the  Chapel  of  the  Pyx,  or  Chapel  of  the 
Chest,  where  treasures  belonging  to  the  sovereign  and 
the  monastery  were  kept.  Neither  of  these  latter  places 
are  shown  to  the  general  public,  but  when  you  go  to  see 
the  Chapter-House,  the  entrance  to  which  is  in  the  east 
cloister,  you  will  see  to  the  right  of  it  the  doorway  of 
the  Pyx  Chapel,  which  is  wonderfully  strong,  and  is 
said  to  be  lined  with  the  skins  of  Danes.  The  interior 
of  this,  with  its  stone  altar  and  its  solid  stone  arches, 
can  have  undergone  very  little  alteration  since  Edward’s 
day.  You  will  get,  too,  what  is  probably  a correct 
general  idea  of  the  whole  building  as  it  looked  from  the 
outside  in  those  early  days  if,  when  you  are  in  the 
Chapter-House,  you  look  carefully  at  the  pictures  which 
are  copied  from  the  Bayeux  tapestries.  This  wonderful 
piece  of  work,  which  was  prepared  for  the  rebuilt 
Cathedral  at  Bayeux  in  Normandy,  was  certainly  em- 
broidered during  the  lifetime  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
and  may  even  have  been  the  work  of  his  wife,  Queen 
Matilda.  Most  probably  it  was  made  in  England,  and 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY  27 


is  in  itself  a valuable  addition  to  the  very  fragmentary 
history  of  those  times.  All  its  details  seem  to  be  very 
accurate,  copied  from  what  the  workers  actually  saw  and 
knew  about,  so  there  is  no  reason  why  the  picture  of 
the  Abbey  in  that  part  of  the  tapestry  which  shows 
the  funeral  of  the  Confessor  should  not  as  accurately 
represent  the  building  exactly  as  it  stood. 

You  must  notice  the  part  towards  the  east  made 
round,  and  the  stones  which  are  “ very  strong  and 
hard,”  with  the  main  tower  and  the  two  smaller  towers 
at  the  side.  And  notice  too  the  figure  of  a man,  who 
is  standing  on  the  roof  of  the  Palace,  and  holding 
with  one  hand  the  weathercock  on  the  east  end  of  the 
Abbey. 

May  be  the  worker  only  sought  to  show  the  build- 
ings of  the  Abbey  and  the  Palace  standing  side  by 
side,  but  all  unconsciously  that  unknown  hand  prophe- 
sied what  should  be  throughout  the  centuries  to  come, 
and  told  how  Church  and  State  should  stand  firmly 
linked  together. 

The  members  of  the  Witan  had  not  departed  to  their 
homes  on  the  conclusion  of  the  festivities  connected 
with  Christmastide  and  the  consecration  of  the  Abbey. 
They  knew  the  king  was  dying  fast,  and  that  before 
many  days  a great  duty  would  rest  on  them.  Eumours 
may  have  reached  their  ears  that  William  of  Normandy, 
cousin  to  Edward,  meant  to  lay  claim  to  the  throne  on 
his  death,  declaring  that  the  king  had  promised  to 
make  him  his  heir,  and  that  Harold  himself  had  vowed 
to  support  him.  But  the  sturdy  Englishmen  who 


28  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


formed  that  council  were  resolved  that  never  with  their 
consent  should  a Norman  rule  over  them,  and  Edward 
knew  full  well  the  man  of  their  choice  when  he  pointed 
to  Harold  as  their  future  king.  There  was  an  heir  to 
the  throne  by  right  of  birth,  Edgar  the  Atheling.  Still 
he  lived  far  away  unknown  to  them  all,  and  the  days 
had  not  yet  come  when  men  succeeded  to  the  throne 
by  right  of  birth  alone.  On  the  spot  was  Harold,  the 
man  they  loved  and  trusted,  “ the  shield  of  the  king- 
dom, the  shelter  of  the  oppressed,  the  judge  of  the 
fatherless  and  the  widow.” 

Edward  had  done  his  part.  “ Death  snatched  him 
from  the  earth,  angels  bore  his  white  soul  to  heaven, 
and  in  his  death  he  had  been  glorious,  for  he  had  made 
last  his  realm  to  the  noble  earl.” 

The  Witan  did  not  hesitate  so  soon  as  the  throne 
was  theirs  to  fill,  but  of  their  number  sent  two,  who 
sought  out  Harold  where  he  stayed,  comforting  his 
widowed  sister,  and  offered  to  him  the  throne  as  the 
man  of  their  choice.  Here  again  the  copy  of  the 
Bayeux  tapestry  in  the  Chapter-House  will  help  you 
to  picture  the  scene.  You  will  see  the  two  nobles,  one 
bearing  the  axe  of  office,  the  other  holding  a crown  and 
pointing  to  the  room  in  which  lay  Edward,  from  whence 
the  crown  had  been  borne.  And  you  will  see  Harold — 
to  quote  the  vivid  words  of  Mr.  Freeman,  “ at  once 
wistfully  and  anxiously  half  drawing  back  the  hand 
which  was  stretched  forth  to  grasp  the  glittering  gift. 
A path  of  danger  lay  open  before  him,  and  duty, 
no  less  than  ambition,  bade  him  enter  upon  the  thorny 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY  29 


road.  And  yet  the  risk  had  to  be  run.  If  he  declined 
the  crown,  to  whom  should  England  offer  it  ? Under 
him  alone  could  there  be  the  faintest  hope  that  England 
would  offer  a united  front  to  either  of  the  invaders  who 
were  sure  to  attack  her.  The  call  of  patriotism  dis- 
tinctly bade  him  not  to  shirk  at  the  last  moment  from 
the  post  to  which  he  had  so  long  looked  forward,  and 
which  had  at  last  become  his  own.  The  first  man  in 
England,  first  in  every  gift  of  war  and  peace,  first  in 
the  love  of  his  countrymen,  first  in  renown  in  other 
lands,  was  bound  to  be  first  alike  in  honour  and  in 
danger.” 

So  Harold  was  virtually  king  of  England,  appointed 
by  Edward,  chosen  by  the  Witan.  Yet  “ full  king  ” 
he  was  not  until  before  the  altar  he  and  his  people 
had  given  each  other  their  solemn  pledges,  until  “ the 
blessing  of  the  Church  and  the  unction  of  her  highest 
ministers  had  made  the  chosen  of  the  people  also  the 
anointed  of  the  Lord.” 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Already  the  members 
of  the  Witan  had  lingered  for  a much  longer  period 
than  was  their  wont,  and  they  were  anxious  to  return 
to  their  homes.  But  to  delay  the  coronation  until 
their  next  meeting  was  too  dangerous  to  be  dreamed 
of.  England  could  not  be  left  without  a king.  The 
burial  of  Edward  and  the  coronation  of  Harold  must 
take  place  at  once. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  amid  unusual  sorrow  Edward 
was  buried,  as  I have  already  described  to  you,  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  Epiphany  morning,  and  a few  hours 


30  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


later  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  solemn  coronation 
rite. 

There  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  it  was  in  West- 
minster Abbey  that  the  ceremony  took  place.  Harold, 
led  by  two  bishops,  walked  to  the  high  altar  followed 
by  a long  procession,  the  singers  chanting  the  prayer 
that  justice  and  judgment  might  be  the  foundations  of 
his  throne,  that  mercy  and  truth  might  go  before  his 
face.  Then  the  king  elect  fell  on  his  knees,  and  the 
grand  strain  of  the  Te  Deum  rose  to  the  skies. 

And  now  Eldred,  Archbishop  of  Northumberland, 
turned  to  the  crowd  and  demanded  of  the  prelates,  the 
Theyns,  and  the  people  of  England  whether  it  was  their 
will  that  Harold  should  be  crowned  king  ? 

Their  answer  was  a mighty  shout  of  assent,  which 
came  from  their  very  hearts.  Then  Harold,  on  his 
oath,  swore  to  protect  the  Church  of  God  and  all 
Christian  people,  to  forbid  wrong  and  robbery  to  men 
of  every  rank,  to  strive  after  justice  and  mercy 
in  all  his  judgments;  and  first  the  Bishop  and  after- 
wards Eldred  prayed  that  the  God  who  had  wrought 
such  mighty  works,  would  pour  down  His  best  gifts  on 
him  chosen  to  be  king  of  the  Angles  and  Saxons,  that 
he  might  be  faithful  as  Abraham,  gentle  as  Moses,  brave 
as  Joshua,  humble  as  David,  wise  as  Solomon,  so  that 
he  might  protect  both  the  Church  and  his  nation  from 
all  visible  and  invisible  foes. 

So  the  oath  was  taken  and  the  prayers  were  ended. 
But  there  was  yet  to  follow  that  sacred  rite  of  mystic 
meaning,  which  was  enacted  as  Eldred  poured  the  holy 


THE  HALLOWING  OF  THE  ABBEY  31 


oil  on  the  head  of  the  king,  beseeching  God,  that  as  of 
old,  kings,  priests,  and  prophets  were  anointed,  so  now 
the  oil  poured  on  the  head  of  His  servant  might  be  a 
true  sign  of  the  sanctifying  of  his  heart,  a means  of 
grace  for  His  glory  and  the  welcome  of  His  people. 
The  crown  was  placed  on  his  head ; the  sword  was 
handed  to  him ; sceptre  and  rod  were  given  one  after 
the  other  into  his  hands ; while  with  each  act  the 
solemn  voice  of  the  Archbishop  rose  in  prayer  that  a 
yet  brighter  crown  in  the  heavenly  country  might  be 
his,  that  he  might  ever  with  the  sword  defend  the 
Church  and  the  people  against  all  adversaries,  that  his 
sceptre  might  be  a sceptre  of  righteousness,  and  that  he 
who  had  been  anointed  with  the  holy  oil  might  stand 
fast  in  the  strength  of  God. 

Thus  was  Harold  set  upon  the  royal  throne ; on  his 
head  was  the  crown,  in  his  hand  the  sceptre,  his  sword 
was  borne  by  two  chiefs,  “ while  all  the  people  saw  him 
with  wonder  and  delight.” 

Directly  the  coronation  ceremony  was  over,  the  Mass 
was  celebrated.  Then  all  adjourned  to  the  Palace  hard 
by,  and  a great  banquet  was  held  on  this  Twelfth  Night, 
the  last  day  of  the  Christmas  festival,  into  which  so 
many  and  varied  scenes  had  been  crowded. 

Little  had  those  members  of  the  Witan  dreamt  when 
they  set  out  from  their  homes,  of  all  that  would  have 
have  happened  ere  they  returned — Christmas  festivities 
and  meetings  of  the  Council ; the  consecration  of  the 
new  church  ; the  death  of  King  Edward ; the  choosing 
of  King  Harold ; the  burying  of  the  old  king  and  the 


32  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


crowning  of  the  new,  all  had  followed  one  after  the 
other  in  those  short  wintry  days. 

And  the  Abbey  itself  had  been  the  centre  round 
which  all  these  events  had  taken  place. 

It  could  never  sink  back  into  being  a mere  Bene- 
dictine monastery  of  seventy  monks,  attached  to  the 
Church  King  Edward  had  built.  A greater  future  lay 
before  it,  and  I doubt  not  that  the  Abbot  Eadwine, 
shrewd  man  that  he  was,  conscious  of  the  charter  which 
gave  him  and  his  successors  a peculiar  independence, 
rested  well  satisfied  on  that  old  Christmas  night. 


CHAPTER  Hi 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS  AT  WESTMINSTER 

“Cynge  Harold  lytel  stilnesse  gelied.” 

King  Harold,  like  King  Edward,  spent  much  more 
time  in  London,  and  consequently  at  Westminster,  than 
any  of  his  predecessors  had  done,  though  not  for  the 
same  reason.  Edward  was  reluctant  to  leave  the 
building  in  which  he  took  so  deep  an  interest ; 
Harold,  knowing  full  well  the  unsettled  state  of  the 
kingdom  he  had  to  defend,  held  that  London,  “ guarded 
alike  by  strong  walls  and  the  strong  hearts  of  its  citi- 
zens,” was  the  best  starting-point  for  any  expedition  he 
might  be  called  on  to  undertake.  So  instead  of  spending 
the  Easter  Feast  at  Winchester,  as  had  been  a long- 
established  custom,  he  came  to  Westminster  and  there 
assembled  the  Witan  Gemot.  He  had  faithfully 
carried  out  every  request  made  to  him  by  the  dying 
King  Edward.  In  every  way  his  position  was 
stronger  than  it  had  been  three  months  before,  and  this 
Easter  festival  saw  him  at  the  zenith  of  his  power. 
Suddenly  a sign  appeared  from  Heaven,  which  brought 
terror  and  desolation  to  the  hearts  of  men.  The  Easter 
hymns  were  still  being  sung  in  the  Abbey,  when  “ the 

33  C 


34  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


sky  became  ablaze  with  a mighty  mass  of  flame,  which 
some  called  a comet.”  This  appearance  brought  about 
a state  of  panic  in  those  days  of  superstition.  First  one 
interpreter  and  then  another  stood  up  to  declare  what 
it  might  portend,  and  to  prophesy  of  terrible  events 
about  to  be  accomplished.  One  and  all  said  the  same, 
the  sword  of  the  Lord  was  drawn  by  this  token,  and 
who  should  tell  where  it  was  destined  to  fall  ? 

Over  the  seas  in  Normandy,  William  had  heard  in 
simple  but  sufficient  language  of  all  that  had  taken  place 
at  Westminster  in  those  first  days  of  the  year  1066.  A 
messenger,  who  had  come  on  an  English  ship,  brought 
the  news,  “ King  Edward  has  ended  his  days,  and  Earl 
Harold  is  raised  to  the  kindom.” 

William’s  wrath  was  intense.  “ Oft  times  he  laced, 
and  as  oft  unlaced  his  mantle ; he  spake  to  no  man,  and 
no  man  dared  speak  to  him.”  The  crown  of  England  he 
declared  was  his  and  his  alone,  promised  to  him  by 
Edward  years  before,  when  he  went  on  a visit  to  the 
English  court,  and  Harold,  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of 
Normandy,  had  sworn  to  support  his  claim.  At  once  he 
sent  a message,  or  probably  several  messengers  to  Harold, 
demanding  from  him  the  crown.  The  Englishman’s 
answer  was  given  with  no  uncertain  sound.  Had  Wil- 
liam really  been  chosen  king  by  Edward  and  the  Witan, 
he  would  have  supported  him,  but  things  were  all 
changed  now,  and  he,  Harold,  could  not  give  up  a crown 
set  on  his  head  by  the  will  of  the  nation,  except  at  the 
nation’s  will.  William  then  decided  on  an  appeal  to 
force.  His  people,  bold  and  adventurous,  rallied  to  his 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS 


35 


side,  and  set  about  preparing  a fleet  in  which  to  cross 
the  seas,  and  his  chief  counsellor,  the  Abbot  Lanfranc, 
obtained  for  him  from  Rome  the  sanction  and  blessing 
of  the  Church  on  his  undertaking,  representing  that  it 
would  be  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  England.  For 
even  in  those  early  days  England  had  shown  an  inde- 
pendence and  a restiveness  under  Roman  control  which 
could  not  be  allowed  to  continue  unrebuked. 

William  was  indeed  a formidable  foe,  and  he  was 
not  the  worst  or  only  foe,  for  Harold  was  suddenly 
called  on  to  face  his  own  brother,  Tostig,  who  had  turned 
against  him,  demanding  half  the  kingdom,  and  who  to 
enforce  this  claim  had  enlisted  on  his  side  Harald 
Hardrada,  the  warrior  king  of  Norway,  whose  fame  as 
a fighter  was  known  from  Iceland  to  Africa.  With  an 
army,  these  two  landed  in  the  North  and  moved  on  to 
York,  fighting  their  way  victoriously.  But  from  London 
Harold  was  marching  at  the  head  of  his  house-carls, 
drawing  into  his  train  ready  volunteers.  As  they  came 
along  the  Roman  road  with  a speed  almost  incredible, 
their  hearts  beating  high  at  the  thought  of  an  encounter 
with  traitors  and  a foreign  foe,  they  told  one  another  how 
King  Edward  had  appeared  to  Harold  on  the  night 
before  their  start,  bidding  him  be  strong  and  very 
courageous,  for  the  victory  would  be  surely  his.  On 
the  25th  of  September  the  armies  faced  each  other,  and 
there  came  a messenger  from  the  enemy’s  camp  offering 
terms.  Harold’s  answer  was  characteristic.  To  his 
brother  he  promised  peace  and  forgiveness,  “ for  he  is 
an  Englishman.  But  to  Harald  Hardrada,  who  is  a 


36  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


foreigner  and  an  enemy,  I will  give  him  six  feet  of 
English  ground  ; or,  as  I hear  he  is  taller  than  most  men, 
I will  give  him  seven  feet.  But  this  is  all  the  English 
ground  he  will  get  from  me.” 

The  battle  was  a fierce  one  and  bravely  fought,  but 
the  Norsemen  were  utterly  vanquished,  and  Harald  Har- 
drada  was  left  sleeping  on  that  seven  feet  of  ground 
which  the  king  had  offered  him.  As  was  his  wont, 
Harold  of  England  showed  nothing  but  generosity  to 
those  of  the  conquered  Norsemen  who  remained,  and 
sent  them  back  in  four-and-twenty  ships  to  their  own 
shores.  Then  with  the  remnants  of  his  own  army  he 
set  out  by  the  way  he  had  come  to  London,  having  first 
summoned  a hasty  Witan  Gemot  where  he  was,  to  tell 
them  that  the  Normans  had  landed  in  the  South.  He 
told  them  of  the  work  which  lay  before  them,  and  they 
answered  him  with  a shout,  “ The  heart  of  Harold  failed 
not,  and  the  hearts  of  the  Englishmen  beat  with  their 
king.” 

October  the  5 th  found  him  in  London  at  his  palace 
of  Westminster,  and  here  to  his  standard  flocked  brave 
and  trusty  men  from  the  shires  of  the  east,  the  south, 
and  the  west,  impelled  by  a passionate  patriotism.  Even 
from  the  cloisters  there  came  willing  soldiers,  for  many 
of  the  monks  refused  to  stay  and  pray  in  safety  when 
they  could  strike  a blow  for  England  on  the  battle-field. 

There  was  much  coming  and  going  of  armed  men 
round  Westminster  during  those  days  of  preparation, 
and  it  was  to  Westminster  Palace  that  Huon  Margot,  a 
monk,  came,  bearing  a message  to  the  king  from  Duke 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  & Co. 


S.  Edmund’s  Chapel. 

SHEWING  TOMB  OF  JOHN  OF  ELTHAM,  YOUNGER  SON  OF  EDWARD  II. 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS 


37 


William.  The  message  was  a demand  for  submission,  a 
challenge,  and  Harold  proudly  sent  back  the  answer, 
“ Tell  the  Duke  I will  seek  him  out  and  do  battle  with 
him.”  Then  Gurth,  the  brother  of  Harold,  found  him 
in  the  Palace,  and  thus  besought  him — 

“Fair  brother,  remain  here,  but  give  me  your  troops; 
I will  take  the  adventure  upon  me  and  will  fight 
William.  And  while  I fight  the  Normans,  do  you 
scour  the  country,  burn  the  houses,  destroy  the  villages, 
and  carry  away  all  the  swine,  goats,  and  cattle,  that 
they  may  not  find  food  or  anything  wherewith  to 
subsist.” 

All  the  men  who  stood  round  in  the  chamber  said — 

“ This  is  good  counsel.  Let  the  king  follow  it.” 

But  Harold  sturdily  refused  to  hold  back  from  danger 
which  he  was  called  upon  to  face,  neither  would  he 
allow  the  country  to  be  harried. 

“ Never,”  he  declared,  “ will  I burn  an  English  village 
or  an  English  house ; never  will  I harm  the  lands  or 
goods  of  any  Englishman.  How  could  I injure  the  people 
I should  govern  ? How  could  I harass  those  I would 
fain  see  thrive  under  my  rule  ? ” 

And  a few  hours  later,  the  king  at  the  head  of  his 
army  marched  through  Kent  and  Sussex  to  the  high 
ground  of  Senlac,  where  he  pitched  his  camp,  within 
seven  miles  of  the  Norman  invaders. 

I am  trying  to  tell  you  of  scenes  in  history  which  are 
linked  with  the  Abbey  or  Palace  of  Westminster,  so  I 
must  not  dwell  on  the  days  that  followed.  Harold,  the 
fearless  soldier,  lay  dead  beneath  the  standard  he  had  so 


38  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


gallantly  defended,  and  around  him  lay  the  flower  of  his 
race,  faithful  to  the  end.  The  men  who  remained  were 
leaderiess  and  hopeless ; they  could  no  more  offer  re- 
sistance to  the  ruthless  Norman  soldiers,  and  at  last 
they  gave  way. 

William  did  not  immediately  march  on  London. 
Tidings  came  that  the  citizens  of  London  were  eager 
to  fight  again.  So  he  first  subdued  the  country  around, 
and  forced  Dover,  Winchester,  and  Canterbury  into  sub- 
mission. Then  harrying  and  burning  wherever  he  was 
opposed,  he  made  his  way  through  Surrey,  Hampshire, 
and  Berkshire,  purposing  to  lay  waste  the  north  and  east 
of  London,  as  he  had  done  the  south  and  west.  He  did 
his  work  all  too  well ; even  the  stout  hearts  of  the  Lon- 
doners quailed,  and  at  Berkhamstead  a deputation  came 
to  him  owning  him  as  conqueror,  laying  the  crown  at 
his  feet.  It  was  a bitter  moment  for  the  men  who 
undertook  this  shameful  errand,  but  no  other  way  was 
open  to  them  in  that  dark  hour,  and  immediately  ar- 
rangements were  made  for  the  coronation  ceremony. 
William,  who  consistently  professed  the  deepest  respect 
for  the  memory  of  King  Edward,  his  “ predecessor,”  de- 
clared that  he  would  only  be  crowned  in  Westminster, 
“which  peculiar  respect,”  says  Dart,  “seems  not  only  to 
arise  from  the  pretence  of  his  title  from  him,  but  the 
better  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  people,  with  whom 
he  stood  but  indifferent,  by  expressing  extraordinary 
reverence  for  their  buried  favourite.” 

On  Christmas  Day,  in  the  year  1066,  the  Abbey 
once  again  saw  a great  gathering.  A guard  of  Norman 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS 


39 


soldiers  waited  without ; inside  mingled  together  wise 
men  of  two  races,  Saxon  and  Norman.  Before  the 
high  altar,  on  the  gravestone  of  the  Confessor,  stood 
the  Conqueror,  on  one  side  a Norman  Bishop,  on  the 
other,  Eldred,  Archbishop  of  York.  Once  again  the  monks 
chanted  the  Te  Dcum,  and  then  followed  an  innovation. 
For  half  that  multitude  assembled  there  knew  not 
the  English  language,  and  the  question  as  to  whether 
they  would  have  this  man  to  be  their  king  had  to  be 
twice  asked,  once  in  English,  once  in  Norman. 

“Yea,  yea,  King  William,”  was  the  answer,  given 
with  a shout  which  so  startled  the  Norman  soldiers  out- 
side, that  at  once  they  imagined  some  disturbance  was 
being  made,  or  some  insult  was  intended  to  their  king. 
In  their  wild  anger,  they  began  to  set  fire  to  the  build- 
ings near  at  hand,  and  as  the  flames  dashed  upwards, 
the  astonished  people  rushed  out  of  the  Abbey  to  see 
what  all  this  might  portend.  So  the  body  of  the  great 
church  was  empty,  and  in  dramatic  solitude  the  Arch- 
bishop went  on  with  the  service,  surrounded  only  by  the 
monks.  William  was  greatly  overcome  as  he  stood  thus 
alone  before  the  altar ; there  was  something  terrible  in 
the  loneliness  and  the  stillness  of  the  deserted  church. 
He  trembled  exceedingly,  and  could  scarce  command  his 
voice.  It  seems  as  if  he  had  shrunk  from  wearing  the 
crown  of  Edward,  or  still  older  crown  of  Alfred,  “ made 
of  gould  wyer  works,  sett  with  slight  stones  and  two  little 
bells,”  for  he  had  caused  to  be  brought  a new  crown, 
very  heavy  with  gems,  and  this  was  the  diadem  set  on 
his  head  by  Eldred,  after  he  had  made  the  usual  vows, 


40  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


with  one  specially  added,  in  which  he  solemnly  under- 
took to  rule  his  people  as  well  as  the  best  of  the  kings 
who  had  gone  before  him. 

Still  from  without  came  the  sounds  of  tumult  and 
excitement,  still  within  the  gleaming  choir  the  solemn 
service  was  continued  to  the  end,  and  thus  was  William 
the  Norman  crowned  and  anointed,  made  king  indeed  of 
England,  but  never  king  of  the  English  people. 

Westminster  did  not  fare  ill  under  the  new  king. 
Abbot  Eadwine  was  discreet  and  wise,  with  much  of  the 
courtier  in  him,  and  he  managed  to  preserve  himself  and 
his  house  in  the  good  graces  of  the  Conqueror.  The 
building  went  steadily  on,  for  money  was  not  wanting, 
it  was  no  part  of  William’s  policy  to  hinder  any  of  the 
work  undertaken  by  the  Confessor.  On  the  contrary,  he 
confirmed  all  the  charters,  and  when  Abbot  Eadwine 
gracefully  yielded  to  him  the  lands  of  Windsor,  which 
the  king  desired  to  enjoy,  it  being  very  convenient  for 
his  retirement  to  hunting,  he  gave  in  exchange  many 
other  lands,  besides  making  rich  offerings.  Moreover, 
William  set  a rich  pall  over  Edward’s  grave,  presented 
a cloth  of  great  splendour  with  two  caskets  of  gold  for 
the  altar,  and  attended  Mass  in  the  Abbey  Church  most 
diligently. 

Eadwine,  the  last  Saxon  Abbot,  died  in  1071,  and 
was  buried  in  the  cloisters ; he  lay  near  to  the  very 
centre  of  all  the  life  in  the  monastery  which  had 
so  developed  under  his  wise  rule.  Here  in  the  cloisters 
the  monks  walked  and  talked,  studied  and  tran- 
scribed ; here  the  novices  and  the  boy  scholars  sought 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS 


4i 


their  recreation  ; here  was  the  great  refectory,  and  close 
by  the  infirmary  and  St.  Catherine’s  Chapel ; overhead 
was  the  long  bare  dormitory.  Surely  it  was  fitting  that 
the  Abbots  of  Westminster  should  be  laid  in  the 
cloisters,  and  so  they  continued  to  be  till  the  year  1222. 
You  will  find  the  names  of  many  of  them  recut  on  the 
stone  benches  in  the  south  cloister,  if  you  look  for 
them,  only  unfortunately  this  was  very  carelessly  done, 
and  in  many  cases  the  names  are  put  over  the  wrong 
graves.  It  seems,  too,  that  Eadwine’s  body  was  moved 
from  the  south  cloister  and  laid  in  the  passage  leading 
to  the  Chapter-House,  close  to  the  faithful  Hugolin,  wrho 
was  the  Chamberlain  and  close  friend  of  the  Confessor. 

William  appointed  in  Eadwine’s  place  Geoffrey,  a 
Norman,  but  so  evil  were  his  ways  that  at  the  end  of 
four  years,  “ having  been  first  admonished  by  the  king 
and  Archbishop  Lanfranc,  but  not  amending  upon  the 
admonition,”  he  was  deprived  and  sent  back  to  Nor- 
mandy in  disgrace,  where  he  died.  He  was  followed  by 
Yitelus,  Abbot  of  Bernay,  held  by  William  to  be  wise 
and  a man  of  business,  as  indeed  it  was  necessary  the 
ruler  of  a large  monastery  should  be,  and  among  other 
things  “being  a stirring  man,  he  let  the  monk  Sulcardus, 
the  best  pen  they  had  belonging  to  the  Abbey,  draw  up 
the  history  of  the  place  to  give  it  a figure  in  the  world.” 

During  the  rule  of  Geoffrey,  the  Lady  Eadgytha, 
widow  of  Harold,  died  at  Winchester,  and  was  buried 
with  great  honour  in  the  tomb  of  her  husband,  a tomb 
which  each  year  became  more  and  more  of  a holy  place 
to  the  people  of  England.  Under  the  hard  rule  of 


42  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


William,  who,  in  the  words  of  that  honest  chronicler 
Master  Richard  Wace,  “was  eke  so  stark  a man  and 
wroth  that  no  man  durst  do  anything  against  his  will, 
beyond  all  metes  stark  to  those  who  withstood  his  will,” 
the  hearts  of  the  people  turned  to  that  tomb  of  an 
English  king,  as  the  source  from  which  they  might  hope 
for  deliverance,  as  the  spot  of  comfort  from  whence  came 
signs  from  heaven  that  the  saintly  king  still  watched 
over  his  sorely  tried  people. 

On  one  day,  a council  of  Norman  clergy  was  as- 
sembled in  St.  Catherine’s  Chapel  at  Westminster,  their 
object  being  to  deprive  the  holy  Wulstan,  Bishop  of 
Worcester,  of  his  see,  on  the  ground  that  “ he  was  a 
very  idiot,  being  unacquainted  with  the  French  language.” 
Lanfranc  ordered  him  to  deliver  up  his  staff  and  ring. 
But  Wulstan  was  before  all  else  an  Englishman. 

“ Truly,  my  Lord  Bishop,”  said  he,  “ you  claim  from 
me  the  pastoral  staff  which  it  was  not  you  who  gave 
me.  In  deference  to  your  judgment  I resign  it,  though 
not  to  you,  but  to  Saint  Edward,  by  whose  authority  I 
received  it.” 

Then  he  walked  to  the  tomb  of  the  glorious  king. 

“ Thou  knowest,”  he  said  in  Saxon,  “ how  reluctantly 
I undertook  this  burden.  Only  to  thee  can  I resign  the 
charge  of  those  thou  didst  entrust  to  my  care.  Receive 
thou  my  staff ; give  it  to  whomsoever  thou  mayest 
choose.” 

Thus  speaking,  he  struck  his  staff  into  the  stone  tomb, 
and  behold  it  sank  in  and  stood  erect,  so  that  they  who 
stood  by  could  not  move  it  neither  to  the  right  nor  the 


SAXONS  AND  NORMANS 


43 


left.  Word  was  sent  to  Lanfranc,  who  had  remained 
with  the  council  in  St.  Catherine’s  Chapel,  and  he 
indignantly  sent  Gundulph,  Bishop  of  Rochester,  to  put 
an  end  to  this  foolish  story  and  carry  the  staff  away. 
But  Gundulph  was  powerless  to  move  it,  and  on  his 
evidence  Lanfranc  himself  came  with  the  king.  Still 
every  effort  was  in  vain,  and  at  last  Lanfranc  com- 
manded Wulstan  to  take  back  the  staff. 

“ My  Lord  and  king,”  entreated  the  Bishop,  “ I pray 
thee  give  now  thy  decision.”  And  the  staff  yielded 
itself  into  his  hands. 

So  the  king  and  the  Archbishop,  frightened  at  what 
they  had  seen,  ran  up  to  Wulstan,  begging  his  forgive- 
ness, and  he,  having  learned  from  the  Lord  to  be  meek 
and  humble  of  heart,  threw  himself  in  his  turn  upon 
his  knees. 

I need  not  tell  you  that  this  is  but  a legend,  and 
between  legend  and  history  there  is  a great  gulf  fixed. 
But  it  is  through  legends  that  we  often  learn  the  beliefs 
and  ideas  held  by  the  mass  of  the  people,  and  this  story 
is  one  of  many  which  explains  how  the  tomb  of  Edward 
became  a holy  shrine. 

William  of  Normandy  was  not  buried  in  the  Abbey; 
he  did  not  even  die  in  the  country  it  had  been  his  great 
ambition  to  conquer  and  possess.  For  in  making  war 
against  the  king  of  France,  he  set  fire  to  the  town  of 
Nantes,  and  his  horse,  treading  on  a red  ember,  plunged 
violently,  throwing  him  to  the  ground,  with  such  injury 
to  himself  that  he  never  recovered,  but  breathed  his  last 
in  a monastery  at  Rouen. 


44  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


A hard  ruler,  indeed,  he  had  been,  yet  Master  Wace, 

whom  “ himself  looked  on  him  and  somewhile  dwelt  in 

his  herd,”  bids  us  remember  that  he  was  “ mild  to  good 

men  that  loved  God,  and  made  such  good  peace  in  the 
* 

land  that  a man  might  travel  over  the  kingdom  with 
his  bosom  full  of  gold  unhurt,  and  no  man  durst  stay 
another  man.” 

“ Wa,  la  wa  ! May  God  Almighty  have  mild- 
heartedness on  his  soul,  and  give  him  forgiveness  of 
his  sins.  And  may  men  after  their  goodness  choose  the 
good  in  him  withal  fleeing  from  the  evil,  as  they  go  on 
their  way  that  leadeth  to  God’s  kingdom.” 

Such  are  the  kindly  words  in  which  Master  Wace 
ends  his  “ Chronicle  of  the  Conquest.” 


CHAPTER  IV 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 

I am  going  to  take  you  along  very  quickly  through  the 
reigns  of  the  Norman  kings — William  Rufus,  Henry  I., 
Stephen,  Henry  II.,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  and  John, 
and  not  make  a long  pause  till  we  come  to  the  year 
1216,  when  Henry  III.,  the  royal  builder  of  the  Abbey 
as  we  know  it,  came  to  the  throne.  The  Church  of 
Westminster,  from  the  days  of  the  Norman  Conquest 
onwards,  became,  as  if  by  right,  the  coronation  church, 
“ the  head,  crown,  and  diadem  of  the  kingdom ; ” and 
Oxford,  Winchester,  and  St.  Paul’s,  which  had  wit- 
nessed so  many  coronations  in  the  time  of  the  Saxon 
kings,  were  no  more  thought  of  for  this  purpose.  But 
rather  curiously  none  of  the  Norman  kings  were  buried 
here.  Of  a foreign  race  they  were,  and  some  among 
them  rested  in  foreign  tombs — the  Conqueror  at  Caen, 
Henry  II.  and  Coeur  de  Lion  at  Fontrevault,  while  Rufus, 
killed  in  the  New  Forest,  was  carried  to  Winchester, 
Henry  I.  to  Reading,  Stephen  to  Faversham,  and  John 
to  Worcester,  this  last-named  king  having  left  in- 
structions that  he  should  be  dressed  like  a monk  and 
laid  next  good  Bishop  Wulstan,  hoping  by  this  subter- 
fuge to  take  in  the  devil ! 


45 


4 6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


The  fact,  however,  of  the  Abbey  being  the  recognised 
place  of  coronation  gave  the  Abbot  a somewhat  unique 
position,  for  he  it  was  who  had  to  prepare  the  king  for 
the  great  ceremonial,  though  the  actual  crowning  became 
the  right  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  All  the 
regalia,  too,  such  as  the  crown  of  Alfred,  the  sceptre, 
the  ring  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  were  kept  at  West- 
minster till  the  seventeenth  century,  when  all  that 
remained  of  them  after  the  destructive  days  of  the 
Commonwealth  found  a safer  resting-place  in  the  Tower 
of  London.  Yet  still  are  they  carried  to  the  Abbey  the 
night  before  a coronation  and  placed  for  the  night  in 
the  Jerusalem  Chamber,  while  the  Dean  and  Canons  of 
Westminster  still  have  the  proud  privilege  of  standing 
within  the  altar  rails  by  the  Archbishop. 

William  Rufus  had  all  the  worst  qualities  of  his 
father  without  his  sense  of  justice,  and  he  was  a cruel, 
selfish  king,  but  he  left  his  mark  on  Westminster, 
though  not  on  the  Abbey.  The  Palace  was  not  large 
enough  for  his  requirements,  and  he  intended  to  rebuild 
it  on  a great  scale.  However  he  accomplished  little 
beyond  the  Great  Hall,  which  to-day  is  known  as 
Westminster  Hall,  and  leads  to  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

This  hall,  repaired  and  strengthened  by  Richard  II. 
and  George  IV.,  is  in  its  way  as  full  of  interest  as  the 
Abbey,  for  here  always  took  place  the  banquet,  a part  of 
the  coronation  ceremony,  here  were  councils  held,  and  here 
was  the  scene  of  many  a great  state  trial.  Thanks  to 
the  affection  felt  by  Rufus  for  Gilbert  the  Abbot,  the 


Picture  and  Tapestry  in  the  Sanctuary. 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


47 


monastery  was  not  taxed  in  the  heavy  way  which  had 
once  seemed  likely  during  a reign  under  which  the 
whole  nation  groaned,  and  indeed  the  king  granted  some 
new  charters  to  it,  for  the  belief  steadily  grew  that  the 
burying-place  of  King  Edward  was  the  burial-place  of  a 
saint,  and  this  general  feeling  of  veneration  could  not  be 
without  its  influence  on  Rufus.  A new  dignity,  if  that 
were  needed,  became  attached  to  the  royal  tomb  at  this 
time,  for  on  its  being  opened  by  Lan franc,  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  in  company  with  many  other  bishops, 
the  king  was  found  to  be  sleeping  there  as  peacefully 
as  if  he  had  been  buried  but  a few  hours,  with  no  sign 
of  change  on  his  fair  white  face. 

On  the  news  that  Rufus  had  been  found  dead  in  the 
new  royal  forest  he  had  himself  appropriated,  his 
younger  brother  Henry  arrived  in  hot  haste  at  West- 
minster, to  urge  that  he  should  be  chosen  and  crowned 
king  before  his  eldest  brother,  Robert,  could  get  over 
from  Normandy.  He  was  better  known,  and  therefore 
better  liked,  than  Robert,  so  it  came  about  as  he  wished ; 
but  as  delay  was  thought  to  be  dangerous,  the  ceremony 
was  quite  simple,  “ good  swords  being  more  thought  of 
than  costly  robes.”  The  fact,  however,  that  Henry 
came  to  the  council,  asking  for  their  support,  gave  them 
a power  over  him  which  they  were  ready  to  seize, 
and  before  the  deed  was  finally  done  they  obtained 
several  important  pledges  from  him  as  they  met  him 
in  Westminster  Hall.  This  partly  explains,  too,  the 
reason  why  Henry  sought  to  win  the  goodwill  of  the 
English  nobles  and  the  English  people,  for  if  Robert 


43  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


had  come  over  from  Normandy  to  fight  for  the  crown, 
the  Norman  nobles  could  not  all  have  been  counted  on. 
And  so,  to  please  the  English,  he  determined  to  marry  a 
princess  of  their  race,  the  Princess  Matilda,  daughter  of 
Malcolm  of  Scotland,  and  great-grand-daughter  of  King 
Edmund  Ironside.  Only  one  obstacle  stood  in  the  way, 
Matilda  was  a nun  in  the  Abbey  of  Ramsey,  but  a nun 
against  her  will,  forced  to  take  the  veil  by  her  aunt 
Christina.  “ In  her  presence  I wore  the  veil  with  grief 
and  indignation,”  she  said,  “ but  as  soon  as  I could  get 
out  of  her  sight  I did  snatch  it  from  my  head,  fling  it 
on  the  ground,  and  trample  it  under  foot.  That  was 
the  way,  and  none  other,  in  which  I was  veiled.” 

Anselm,  the  large-hearted  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
declared  that  a vow  so  taken  was  not  binding,  and  to 
the  great  joy  of  the  nation  it  was  decided  that  she 
should  be  married  and  crowned  on  the  same  day  in  the 
Abbey.  It  was  an  English  crowd  which  gathered  to 
Westminster  on  that  great  Sunday  of  November  n,  and 
the  shouts  of  Englishmen  resounded  the  heartfelt  “ Yea, 
yea,”  when  Anselm  from  the  pulpit  asked  them  if  they 
would  that  this  marriage  should  take  place. 

Matilda,  who  was  “ a very  mirror  of  piety  and 
humility,”  and  who  was,  moreover,  shy  at  the  sight  of 
the  “ prodigious  multitude  ” assembled  to  gaze  on  her, 
blushed  a rosy  red,  the  colour  of  her  crimson  robes,  and 
was  greatly  overcome.  She  took  up  her  residence  at 
Westminster  Palace,  and  the  fame  of  her  good  deeds 
cemented  still  more  closely  the  affection  felt  for  her  by 
her  subjects.  Henry  loyally  redeemed  the  promise  he 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


49 


had  made  before  his  coronation,  and  this  was  put  down 
entirely  to  the  influence  of  his  queen. 

“ Many  are  the  good  laws  that  were  made  in  Eng- 
land through  Matilda,  the  good  queen,  as  I understand,” 
wrote  the  monk  Robert  of  Gloucester. 

To  the  Abbey  adjoining  her  palace  she  was  a generous 
benefactress.  Each  day  in  Lent  she  went  thither  bare- 
foot clothed  in  hair-cloth,  and  herself  waited  on  the 
poorest  beggars  who  sought  the  charity  of  the  monks, 
even  washing  their  feet. 

“ Madam,  for  Godde’s  love,  is  this  well  ado  ? ” asked 
a courtier. 

“ Sir,”  answered  the  Queen,  “ our  Lord  Himself  ex- 
ample gave  for  so  to  do.” 

Both  Henry  and  his  eldest  son  William  were  away  in 
Normandy  when  this  good  queen  died  at  Westminster 
in  the  year  1 1 1 5 , after  eighteen  years  of  happy  married 
life  “ withouten  strife,”  and  she  was  buried  close  to  her 
great-uncle,  Edward  the  Confessor,  all  people  mourning 
her  with  sad  tears. 

Henry  died  in  the  year  1135,  leaving  no  son,  as 
Prince  William  had  been  drowned  in  making  an  heroic 
effort  to  save  his  sister  Mary,  and  England  was  still  so 
much  under  foreign  influence,  that  instead  of  his  being 
succeeded  by  his  daughter  Matilda  or  Maud,  his  nephew, 
Stephen  of  Blois,  was  chosen  king  and  crowned  on  St. 
Stephen’s  Day.  In  spite  of  this,  a constant  struggle 
went  on  against  the  supporters  of  Maud,  who  were 
many,  and  the  whole  reign  was  one  of  misery  and  mis- 
rule for  England. 

D 


50  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“ King  Henry  had  given  peace  to  the  realm  and  had 
been  as  a father  to  his  people,  but  now  was  the  whole 
kingdom  thrown  into  trouble  and  confusion.” 

Westminster  suffered  many  things  at  the  king’s  hands, 
for  he  forced  on  the  monastery  an  Abbot,  Gervase  de  Blois, 
who  “ managed  very  ill,  disposing  of  many  Abbey  lands, 
and  being  so  lavish  with  the  goods  of  the  monastery, 
that  the  monks  were  afraid  he  would  have  made  away 
even  with  the  regalia,”  while  many  Abbey  lands  were 
ravished  and  laid  bare  as  the  result  of  the  civil  warfare 
between  the  Empress  Maud  and  Stephen. 

At  last  a compact  was  made  that  Stephen  should 
reign  for  his  lifetime,  and  that  Maud’s  son,  Henry  of 
Anjou,  should  succeed  him ; and  one  year  after  this  had 
been  agreed  upon,  Stephen  died,  lamented  by  no  one. 
Henry  was  a strong  character,  a great  lover  of  justice 
and  order ; indeed,  he  may  be  called  the  father  of  English 
law,  and  to  him  we  owe  the  system  of  trial  by  jury. 
He  found  two  great  powers  in  the  land,  the  Church  and 
the  Barons,  and  he  determined  to  hold  in  check  the 
influence  of  both. 

Westminster  was  fortunate  in  having  for  Abbot, 
Lawrence,  a man  of  much  learning,  and  what  was  even 
more  important,  of  much  tact,  for  he  managed  to  keep 
on  excellent  terms  with  the  king,  whom  he  persuaded 
to  repair  and  cover  with  lead  the  roofs  of  the  building. 
It  was  he  who  gained  for  the  Abbey  the  great  honour 
for  which  the  whole  nation  had  been  longing,  and  as" the 
result  of  a sermon  he  preached  before  the  king,  the  nobles, 
and  a great  assembly  of  people,  an  embassy  was  sent  to 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


5i 


Rome,  praying  that  Edward  the  Confessor  might  he 
raised  to  the  honour  of  a saint.  More  than  once  had 
this  appeal  been  made  and  refused,  but  now  the  Pope, 
who  feared  Henry  and  had  a great  regard  for  Lawrence, 
decreed  that  “ this  glorious  light  was  to  be  no  more  hid 
from  the  world.” 

Perhaps,  too,  the  large  sum  of  money,  willingly 
offered  by  pious  Englishmen,  carried  some  little  weight. 

At  midnight  on  October  13,  1163,  Abbot  Lawrence 
with  the  Archbishop  Thomas  Beckett  opened  the 
grave  of  Edward,  and  the  “ body  of  the  glorious  king, 
who  was  henceforth  to  be  honoured  on  earth  as  he  was 
glorified  in  heaven,”  was  removed  into  a “ precious 
coffin,”  made  ready  by  the  order  of  Henry  II.  The 
celebrated  “ pilgrim  ring  ” Lawrence  drew  from  his  finger 
to  keep  in  the  monastery  as  a precious  relic,  and  the 
anniversary  of  this  day  was  solemnly  kept  for  many  a 
long  year. 

The  king  was  so  anxious  to  make  safe  the  succession 
of  his  eldest  son,  Prince  Henry,  that  he  insisted  on  his 
being  crowned  during  his  lifetime.  But  Prince  Henry 
did  not  live  to  succeed  to  the  throne,  and  it  was 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  who  was  crowned  as  the  next 
English  king.  A very  vivid  account  has  come  down 
to  us  through  the  Chronicle  of  De  Hoveden  describing 
the  doings  on  this  day,  telling  how  from  the  Palace  to 
the  Abbey  the  ground  was  covered  with  woollen  cloth 
over  which  walked  the  long  procession  as  it  wended 
its  way  to  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  swinging  of  censers, 
lighted  tapers  shining  everywhere.  Then  before  the 


52  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


altar  Duke  Richard  swore  that  he  would  all  the  days 
of  his  life  observe  peace,  honour,  and  reverence  towards 
God  and  the  Holy  Church,  that  he  would  put  an  end 
to  any  bad  laws  or  customs  that  were  in  his  kingdom, 
and  confirm  all  good  laws,  in  token  of  which  Bald- 
win of  Canterbury  anointed  him  with  oil  on  his  head, 
his  breast,  and  his  limbs  to  signify  glory,  valour,  and 
knowledge,  afterwards  placing  the  crown  on  his  head. 

But  the  people  who  were  gathered  together  for  the 
ceremony  were  filled  with  great  forebodings  of  evil  at 
the  sight  of  a bat  who  fluttered  round  the  king,  though 
it  was  the  bright  part  of  the  day,  and  at  the  sound  of 
a peal  of  bells  which  rang  mysteriously.  And  when 
some  among  them  caught  sight  of  a party  of  Jews, 
whose  curiosity  had  overcome  their  prudence,  Jews 
and  witches  having  been  commanded  by  a royal  pro- 
clamation not  to  come  near  the  Abbey  or  Palace  lest 
they  should  work  evil  to  the  king,  they  fell  upon 
them  and  beat  them  to  death,  thus  laying  the  train 
for  a series  of  horrible  Jewish  massacres  throughout 
the  country. 

Richard,  as  you  know,  devoted  himself  to  fighting 
the  battles  of  the  Cross  in  Palestine,  and  England  was 
left  to  the  mercy  and  the  conflicts  of  the  Barons. 

When  he  fell  in  battle,  his  brother  John  succeeded 
in  getting  himself  elected  king,  though  by  this  time 
a right  of  inheritance  had  been  established,  and  there 
was  living  Arthur,  the  son  of  John’s  elder  brother, 
and  therefore  the  lawful  heir.  Never  perhaps  has  a 
king  been  crowned  in  Westminster  who  was  so  false 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


53 


to  Goil,  to  man,  and  to  his  people.  Even  on  his 
coronation  day  he  jeered  and  mocked  during  the 
celebration  of  the  Mass,  and  through  the  years  which 
followed  no  gleam  of  light  breaks  through  his  deeds 
of  treachery,  cruelty,  and  crime.  “ Hell  itself  is  de- 
filed by  his  presence,”  wrote  the  uncompromising 
chronicler  of  his  reign. 

Although  the  desperate  Barons  had  forced  him  to  sign 
the  Great  Charter,  they  had  no  belief  that  he  would 
abide  by  it,  and  certain  of  them  therefore  entered  into 
treaty  with  Louis,  the  Dauphin  of  France,  who  came 
over  to  England  prepared  to  accept  the  crown.  Just 
at  this  moment,  however,  John  died,  aud  the  French 
Prince  was  too  hasty  in  assuming  that  the  throne 
was  his,  for  he  began  to  divide  up  the  kingdom 
and  give  lands  to  his  French  followers  in  a manner 
which  roused  the  indignation  of  the  stalwart  Barons. 
John  had  left  a little  son  of  ten.  Why  not  make  him 
king,  they  reasoned  ? The  Council  could  rule  the  land, 
and  for  adviser  to  the  little  Prince,  who  would  be 
more  likely  to  carry  out  the  spirit  of  the  Great 
Charter  than  that  wise  and  trusted  noble,  William, 
Earl  of  Pembroke  ? So  after  a short  struggle,  Louis, 
who  had  taken  possession  of  the  Abbey  aud  many 
other  places  in  London,  went  back  to  France,  and 
the  boy  king,  who  had  been  hurriedly  crowned  at 
Gloucester  to  make  him  secure,  was  crowned  again  in 
Westminster  with  great  rejoicings  on  the  Whit- Sun- 
day of  1220.  Once  more  the  people  of  London  felt 
that  peace  and  prosperity  would  now  be  theirs,  and 


54  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


never  before  had  a coronation  day  been  kepf  with 
such  spontaneous  joy. 

The  Abbot  of  Westminster  was  a certain  H imez,  a 
Norman,  “ tbe  last  of  that  country,”  Widmore  tells  us 
with  glee,  and  he  was  anxious  that  the  Abbey  should 
not  be  behind  the  other  great  churches  of  the  day 
through  not  having  a special  chapel  dedicated  to  the 
Virgin  Mary.  For  everywhere  cathedrals  and  abbeys 
were  being  enlarged,  and  the  Lady  Chapel,  stretching 
behind  the  high  altar,  held  the  place  of  honour. 

Humez  had  obtained  the  necessary  money  from  certain 
pious  persons,  and  with  much  wisdom  begged  that  the 
boy  king  should  lay  the  foundation-stone  of  this  new 
chapel  on  his  coronation  day.  Henry,  who  from  his 
childhood  was  deeply  religious,  readily  agreed ; perhaps 
it  was  on  that  day  that  the  dream  came  to  him  of 
leaving  behind  him  some  such  memorial  as  this  of 
King  Edward.  Certainly  it  was  from  watching  the 
building  of  this  Lady  Chapel,  with  its  light  pointed 
arches  and  its  graceful  form,  representing  as  it  did 
the  “ new  style,”  that  his  dream  took  shape,  so  that 
twenty-five  years  later  he  commenced  the  work  of 
completely  rebuilding  Edward’s  massive  Abbey  on  the 
beautiful  Early  English  lines.  His  reverence  for  the 
memory  of  Edward  almost  amounted  to  worship,  and 
like  his  ancestor — for  he  proudly  claimed  to  be  of 
Edward’s  stock  through  Queen  Matilda — his  religion 
was  more  to  him  than  anything  else,  for  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  days  praying  or  in  attending 
masses.  But  he  was  also  a great  lover  of  all  that  was 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


55 


costly  and  beautiful,  and  Laving  married  a French 
Princess,  he  had  become  familiar  with  many  of  the 
magnificent  buildings  of  France.  So  he  felt  that  the 
Abbey  with  its  stately  simplicity  was  not  splendid 
enough  to  hold  the  shrine  of  the  sainted  king,  and 
he  determined  to  raise  a building  which  was  to  be 
“ the  most  lovable  thing  in  Christendom.” 

It  is  for  giving  us  this  most  lovable  thing  that  we 
owe  to  Henry  III.  a deep  measure  of  gratitude,  and  yet 
heavy  was  the  price  paid  for  it  at  the  time  by  those  who, 
being  weak  and  defenceless,  were  powerless  to  resist  the 
heavy  taxes  laid  on  them.  The  new  Abbey  was  paid 
for  by  the  people  : sometimes  money  was  cruelly  extorted 
from  them  ; sometimes  a great  fair  was  arranged  in  the 
fields  near  Westminster,  and  all  the  shops  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood were  commanded  to  be  closed  for  many  days, 
so  that  the  crowds  would  be  forced  to  flock  round  the 
Abbey  and  spend  their  money  there ; sometimes  large 
sums  were  extorted  from  the  Jews  ; sometimes  the  king 
was  driven  as  a last  resource  to  pawning  the  Abbey 
jewels  and  treasures.  At  all  costs  money  had  to  be 
found,  and  money  in  abundance,  for  Henry’s  ideas  were 
all  on  the  most  lavish  scale,  and  could  not  be  carried 
out  with  less  than  ,£500,000  of  our  money. 

So,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  the  Abbey  is  the  church 
of  the  nation,  built  with  the  gold  of  the  people.  And 
there  is  another  striking  fact  to  remember.  Gradually 
the  clear-headed  and  patriotic  among  the  Barons  were 
beginning  to  realise  that  though  they  had  made  the 
king  swear  to  observe  the  Great  Charter,  they  had  no 


56  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


power  of  putting  into  laws  which  had  to  be  observed 
the  different  provisions  of  that  Charter ; and  though 
Henry  was  neither  cruel  nor  tyrannical  by  nature,  as  his 
father  had  been,  he  was  weak,  impulsive,  changeable, 
and  extravagant.  His  idea  of  power  lay  in  the  carrying 
out  of  his  magnificent  ideas  at  Westminster,  regardless 
of  the  cost,  till,  says  Matthew  of  Paris  severely,  “ Oh 
shame ! his  folly,  by  frequent  repetition,  came  to  be 
looked  on  as  a matter  of  course.” 

This  is  not  the  place  to  tell  you  at  length  how  one 
of  the  barons,  Simon  de  Montfort  by  name,  fought  the 
good  fight  by  means  of  which  the  Charter  became  a 
living  power  in  the  land  ; you  must  read  of  him  in 
other  books,  and  learn  how  he  came  to  be  called  the 
father  of  English  Parliaments.  What  I want  you  to 
remember  now  is  that  it  was  he  who  determined  to 
check  the  unjust  taxation  which  was  being  imposed  by 
Henry  in  his  efforts  to  raise  the  money  for  the  building 
of  the  Abbey.  “ Let  the  king,”  he  said,  “ call  together 
the  barons  and  citizens,  and  let  him  tell  them  how  much 
money  it  is  that  he  wants,  and  what  he  wants  it  for, 
and  then  it  will  be  for  the  barons  and  people  to  say 
how  much  money  they  will  give,  and  how  it  shall  be 
collected.  If  the  king  asks  what  is  right  and  just,  then 
what  he  asks  will  be  given  to  him.” 

There  was  only  one  way  by  which  king  and  people 
could  thus  come  face  to  face — Henry  must  summon  to 
Westminster  a Parliament  to  discuss  those  matters  with 
him,  and  it  must  be  a Parliament  not  made  up  of 
bishops  and  barons  only;  all  England  must  be  represented. 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS 


57 


So  in  the  year  1265  the  first  real  Parliament  as- 
sembled at  Westminster — twenty-three  barons,  a hundred 
and  twenty  churchmen,  two  knights  from  every  county, 
and  two  burgesses  from  every  town. 

To-day  the  Houses  of  Parliament  and  Westminster 
Abbey  stand  side  by  side,  a truly  wondrous  group  of 
carved  grey  stone  ; but  as  you  look  at  them,  I want  you 
to  remember  how  it  was  through  the  building  of  the 
Abbey  that  the  first  Parliament  which  at  all  represented 
the  people  of  England  came  into  being. 

Can  you  not  imagine  some  of  the  scenes  which  took 
place  round  Westminster  during  those  days  ? Can  you 
not  fancy  the  interest  and  anxiety  with  which  those 
knights  and  burghers,  many  of  them  perhaps  in  London 
for  the  first  time,  walked  around  the  nearly  completed 
building,  struck  with  amazement  that  so  fair  a thing 
could  be  fashioned  out  of  stone  ? How  closely  they 
must  have  watched  the  workmen,  some  of  them 
foreigners  of  great  skill,  but  many  of  them  entirely 
English,  masons,  carpenters,  builders,  carvers,  all  doing 
their  part,  all  carrying  out  the  designs  of  that  un- 
known architect,  now  held  to  be  an  English  master  of 
the  work,  who  had  been  sent  by  the  king  of  France 
to  learn  there  the  new  style.  How  eagerly  they  must 
have  chatted  with  the  monks,  who  during  this  rebuild- 
ing were  living  in  the  most  uncomfortable  manner,  but 
who  nevertheless  would  be  ready  enough  to  take  the 
strangers  inside,  and  point  out  to  them  one  beauty 
after  another.  How  their  eyes  must  have  been  dazzled 
by  the  wealth  of  colour  and  the  exquisite  carvings  in 


5 8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


marble,  stoue,  and  oak.  How  they  must  have  mar- 
velled at  the  fairy  lightness  of  those  arches,  the  deli- 
cate tracery  of  the  windows,  the  glint  and  glitter  of  the 
glass  mosaic,  the  soft  colours  of  the  marble. 

For  in  very  truth  this  building  of  King  Henry’s 
exceeded  everything  they  had  dreamt  of  or  imagined. 
In  every  way  the  new  Abbey  was  far  larger  than  the 
old,  though  a limit  was  set  on  its  length  by  the  Lady 
Chapel  of  Abbot  Humez,  which  is  now  known  to  you 
as  the  Chapel  of  Henry  VII.  The  old  form  of  the 
Cross  was  kept,  but  a ring  of  chapels  encircled  the 
east  end,  while  transepts,  aisles,  and  cloisters  were  all 
made  longer  and  far  loftier.  But  the  central  point  of 
magnificence  was  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
which  lay  immediately  behind  the  high  altar,  made 
to  stand  even  higher  than  the  altar  by  a mound  of 
earth  said  to  have  been  brought  all  the  way  from  the 
Holy  Land. 

On  the  13th  of  October  1269,  the  choir  and  east 
end  being  all  complete,  the  coffin  of  King  Edward, 
which  had  been  kept  during  the  rebuilding,  first  in  the 
“ quire  where  the  monks  do  sing,”  and  then  in  the 
Palace  of  Westminster,  was  solemnly  carried  back  tc 
the  Abbey  by  the  king  and  his  brother,  his  two  sons 
and  many  nobles,  followed  by  a vast  procession  of 
clergy  and  citizens,  and  placed  with  great  pomp  and 
ceremony  in  the  newly-made  shrine. 

The  next  time  you  go  into  Edward  the  Confes- 
sor’s Chapel,  you  must  wander  back  in  imagination 
for  more  than  six  hundred  years,  and  picture  to  your- 


*77= 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  &■  Co. 


The  Confessor's  Chapei.. 


THROUGH  SEVEN  REIGNS  59 

self  that  solemn  service  of  the  “ Translation  of  St. 
Edward.” 

The  workmen  had  done  their  work  right  well,  and 
we  know  at  least  the  names  of  some  of  them ; for  Peter, 
the  Roman  citizen  who  wrought  the  mosaic,  has  left 
an  inscription  telling  us  that  he  finished  the  work  in 
1269;  and  among  the  Fabric  Rolls  of  Westminster  we 
can  find  accounts  sent  in  by  Robert  de  Beverley,  mason ; 
Brother  Ralph,  the  convert ; Alexander,  the  carpenter ; 
and  Adam  Stretton,  clerk  of  the  works,  “ for  the  wages 
of  masons  serving  before  the  shrine,  carpenters,  painters, 
plumbers,  glaziers,  inferior  workmen,  and  workmen  sent 
to  divers  places.” 

The  tomb  of  the  Confessor  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  shrine,  set  on  high  “ as  a light  to  the  church,” 
and  was  divided  into  three  parts : the  base,  in  the 
niches  of  which  sick  people  were  to  be  laid,  that  the 
Saint  might  heal  them ; the  tomb  itself,  of  soft  Purbeck 
marble,  rich  with  mosaic  work  of  coloured  gems  and 
stones,  and  above  this  a shrine  of  pure  gold  set  with 
ail  manner  of  costly  jewels,  sapphires,  emeralds,  and 
rubies,  whilst  images  in  gold  and  silver  of  the  Virgin 
and  the  Holy  Child,  John  the  Evangelist  and  Peter, 
stood  around  as  guardian  spirits. 

Much  of  the  old  magnificence  has  vanished ; time 
has  wrought  its  work,  but  more  deadly  than  time  have 
been  the  ravages  of  covetous  men  who  longed  to  possess 
its  treasure,  or  violent  men  who  believed  it  to  be  little 
better  than  an  idol  set  up  in  their  midst. 

Yet  it  has  a mellow  beauty  of  its  own,  a dignity 


6o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


enhanced  rather  than  lessened  by  the  traces  everywhere 
apparent  of  its  former  glory,  and  we  see  in  it  not  only 
an  exquisite  piece  of  work,  but  also  that  shrine  which, 
like  a magnet,  drew  so  many  of  England’s  kings  and 
queens  to  rest  beneath  its  shadow. 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  Sr  Co. 


Tombs  of  Edward  I.  and  Henry  III. 


CHAPTER  V 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS  IN  EDWARDS  SHRINE 

As  you  stand  in  the  Confessor’s  shrine,  you  will  see  all 
around  you  the  tombs  of  kings  and  queens,  and  in  the 
next  chapters  I am  going  to  tell  you  something  of  those 
who  were  thought  worthy  to  lie  in  a place  of  such  high 
honour. 

Henry  III.  was  not  at  first  buried  in  this  chapel, 
on  which  he  had  lavished  so  much  thought  and 
wealth.  He  died  in  the  November  of  1272,  and  was 
carried  to  Westminster,  the  Knights  Templars,  who  had 
given  some  precious  gifts  to  the  Abbey,  undertaking  to 
provide  the  coffin  and  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the 
funeral,  that  it  might  be  on  a scale  befitting  one  who 
had  been  so  princely  in  his  dealings  with  the  Church 
and  all  matters  concerning  religion.  There  is  something 
pathetic  in  the  ending  of  Henry’s  life,  for  though  he  had 
reigned  nearly  sixty  years,  he  had  not  won  the  love  or 
trust  of  his  people,  and  it  has  been  truly  said  that  '‘in 
his  time  England  did  nothing  great  except  against 
him.”  The  old  king  was  alone  when  the  end  came,  for 
his  son  Edward  was  away  on  a Crusade,  and  his  brother, 
Richard,  had  died  the  year  before,  broken-hearted  at  the 
murder  of  his  son  Henry  by  a son  of  Simon  de  Montfort. 

6l 


62  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


But  the  Templars  spared  nothing  that  could  make  the 
funeral  costly,  so  that,  as  the  solemn  procession  passed 
along,  men  declared  that  “ the  king  shone  more  mag- 
nificent dead  than  he  had  appeared  when  living.” 

He  was  laid  before  the  altar,  in  the  very  place  from 
which  the  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  had  been  re- 
moved, for  it  was  considered  that  special  virtues  still 
hovered  round  that  spot. 

Very  different  must  the  new  choir  have  looked, 
with  its  immense  height,  its  delicate  work,  and  its 
mysterious  flying  buttresses,  to  the  low,  simple  choir 
of  the  Confessor’s  day.  Round  the  High  Altar  itself 
was  a blaze  of  colour,  for  all  the  mosaic  work  on  the 
floor,  which  you  still  can  see,  was  freshly  brought  from 
Rome  by  the  Abbot  Ware,  who  had  gone  there  to  do 
homage  to  the  Pope,  the  monks  of  Westminster  having 
refused  to  hold  themselves  subject  to  the  Bishop  of 
London,  and  it  was  dazzling  in  its  richness.  Quarrels 
between  the  monks  of  Westminster  and  other  dignitaries 
seem  to  have  occurred  very  often  in  those  days,  as  the 
monks,  somewhat  elated  at  the  royal  favours  showered 
upon  their  church,  were  inclined  to  be  overbearing 
and  to  resent  any  authority ; while  once  at  least  during 
Henry’s  reign  there  had  been  a serious  fracas  between 
the  “ citizens  of  London  ” and  the  “ men  of  Westminster  ” 
on  the  occasion  of  some  sports.  Eor  when  the  “ men  of 
London  ” seemed  to  be  getting  the  mastery,  the  Baylif  of 
Westminster,  with  some  men,  harnessed  themselves  and 
fell  to  fighting,  so  wounding  the  citizens  that  they  re- 
solved to  be  revenged.  Spurred  on  by  one  Constantine 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS 


63 


Fitz-Henulfe,  they  issued  forth  without  any  order,  fought 
a civil  battle  round  Westminster,  and  pulled  down  as 
many  houses  as  they  could  belonging  to  the  Abbot  and 
Baylif.  Nor  when  Constantine  was  captured  would  he 
express  any  sorrow  for  his  misdeeds.  On  the  contrary, 
he  affirmed  gladly  that  “ he  had  done  it  all,  and  had 
done  much  less  than  he  ought  to  have  done.”  The  fact 
that  King  Henry,  among  other  punishments,  forced 
the  citizens  to  pay  many  thousand  marks  for  this  raid, 
did  not  tend  to  soften  down  the  ill-feeling  which 
existed. 

Even  at  Henry’s  funeral  the  dignity  of  the  Abbot  had 
to  be  asserted,  for  he  refused  to  allow  the  Archbishop  to 
read  the  service  until  he  had  signed  a paper  explaining 
that  his  so  officiating  was  not  to  be  made  a precedent, 
or  to  rob  the  Abbot  of  any  privileges. 

So,  with  quarrels  going  on  around  him  to  the  end, 
King  Henry  was  buried,  and  the  Earl  of  Gloucester, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  coffin,  solemnly  swore  fealty 
to  “ Lord  Edward,”  the  lawful  heir,  then  far  away  in 
Palestine. 

Edward  I.  was  in  a special  sense  a child  of  West- 
minster, for  he  had  been  born  in  the  Palace  there,  and 
had  been  christened  Edward  after  the  Confessor.  With 
all  his  faults,  Henry  was  devoted  to  his  wife  and  to  his 
children,  and  the  young  Edward  spent  much  more  of  his 
boyhood  with  his  parents  than  was  usual  in  those  days. 
He  was  delicate  too,  and  often  his  mother  had  greatly 
upset  the  old  monks  in  the  monastery  at  Beaulieu  by 
going  to  nurse  him  there  when  he  had  fallen  ill  while 


64  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


on  a visit.  He  was  kept  during  his  boyhood  under  her 
watchful  eye  at  Westminster.  Probably  he  was  taught 
by  one  of  the  Westminster  monks,  and  though  we  hear 
that  he  was  “ fonder  of  actions  than  of  books,”  he  learned 
to  speak  eloquently  in  French  and  English  and  to  under- 
stand Latin.  As  he  grew  stronger  he  showed  a great 
liking  for  all  outdoor  sports,  riding,  hawking,  hunting, 
and  sword  exercises,  and  with  his  cousin  Henry,  the  son 
of  Richard  of  Cornwall,  his  young  French  uncles,  who 
had  taken  up  their  abode  at  the  Court,  and  the  sons  of 
Simon  de  Montfort,  he  played  many  a game  and  had 
many  a boyish  adventure  round  Westminster.  His 
affection  for  the  place  never  failed.  Had  not  he 
watched  it  growing  in  grace  and  beauty,  and  was  there 
a single  corner  of  it  with  which  he  was  not  familiar  ? 
The  deeply  religious  influence  of  King  Henry,  too,  could 
not  fail  to  leave  its  mark  on  his  son,  who,  in  spite  of 
being  his  opposite  in  every  other  way,  had  always  an 
intense  reverence  for  sacred  things.  Henry  was  the 
dreamer,  Edward  the  doer,  but  among  the  many 
fine  qualities  the  young  Prince  possessed,  one  of  the 
most  charming  was  his  loyalty  and  patience  towards  his 
father,  which  had  never  wavered,  however  sorely  he  had 
been  tried  by  Henry’s  utter  incapacity  to  hold  the  reins 
of  government. 

It  was  nearly  two  years  after  the  death  of  Henry 
before  Edward  was  able  to  reach  England,  and  yet  all 
had  gone  on  quietly  during  the  interval.  The  new 
king  had  been  proclaimed  ; the  assembly  of  prelates, 
knights  of  the  shire  and  citizens  had  met,  had  solemnly 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS  65 

bound  themselves  by  the  same  oath  as  that  taken  by 
the  Earl  of  Gloucester  at  Henry’s  funeral,  and  three 
men,  the  Archbishop  of  York,  Robert  Mortimer,  Lord  of 
the  Welsh  Marches,  and  Robert  Burnell,  all  trusty 
friends  of  Edward,  were  appointed  to  carry  on  the 
government  for  the  time  being. 

On  August  i,  1272,  Edward  landed  at  Dover,  and  on 
August  19  he  was  crowned  with  his  dearly  loved  wife 
Eleanor,  who  had  been  at  his  side  through  all  the  perilous 
years  which  were  past.  “ Nothing  ought  to  part  those 
whom  God  has  joined,  and  the  way  to  heaven  was  as 
near  from  Palestine  as  from  England,”  she  had  declared. 

Great  were  the  rejoicings  in  London  that  day,  for  the 
beautiful  Eleanor  had  a warm  place  in  all  hearts,  and 
of  Edward  all  had  high  hopes.  “ In  face  and  form  he 
is  comely.  By  a head  and  shoulders  he  outstrips  most 
every  man,”  the  citizens  said  as  they  marked  his  white 
determined  face,  his  eyes,  which,  though  soft,  could  flash 
like  fire,  his  hair  the  colour  of  burnished  gold,  and  his 
well-knit  figure  straight  as  a dart. 

And  throughout  his  reign  the  nation  understood 
Edward.  His  was  a great  simple  character  which  ap- 
pealed to  them.  His  faults  were  the  faults  of  a strong 
man  who  will  not  be  turned  aside  from  his  purpose  ; 
his  ambitions  were  bound  up  in  England  only.  To 
make  her  a strong  united  kingdom  was  the  dream  of  his 
life,  and  though  in  this  cause,  he  fought  relentlessly, 
alike  against  Llewellyn  of  Wales  and  Wallace  of  Scot- 
land, he  strove  with  equal  vigour  to  give  his  people  good 
laws,  fair  taxation,  and  just  representation.  “That 

E 


66  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


which  touches  all  should  he  approved  by  all,”  was  his 
creed,  and  it  was  he  who  developed  the  Parliaments  of 
Simon  de  Montfort,  until,  under  his  guidance,  what  was 
called  the  Model  Parliament  was  assembled  at  West- 
minster in  1295.  So  large  was  this  new  assembly, 
that  it  was  no  longer  an  easy  matter  for  all  to  sit 
together  in  the  hall  of  Westminster  Palace,  and  a 
division  was  made,  the  Barons  remaining  in  the  Palace, 
and  the  Commons,  or  representatives  of  the  people, 
using  the  wonderful  new  Chapter-House,  which  formed 
part  of  Henry  III.’s  work  in  the  cloisters  of  the  Abbey. 
This  Chapter-House  was  the  place  in  which  the  monks, 
with  the  Abbot  and  all  the  other  dignitaries  of  the 
Abbey,  met  once  a week  for  conference.  Here  com- 
plaints were  listened  to,  here  misdeeds  were  inquired 
into,  here,  tied  to  the  central  pillar,  those  older  monks 
who  had  offended  were  publicly  flogged.  It  was 
designed  for  a meeting-place,  with  its  rows  of  stone 
benches  and  its  stall  at  the  east  end  for  the  high 
officials ; and  what  more  natural  than  that  the  Abbot 
should  offer  it  to  the  king  as  the  place  where  the 
Parliament  should  assemble  ? 

The  story  goes  that  the  prudent  Abbot  made  one 
condition  with  the  offer,  and  stipulated  that  the  Chapter- 
House,  being  lent  to  the  king  for  the  use  of  the  Com- 
mons, the  Crown  should  keep  it  in  repair.  No  doubt 
the  story  is  true,  nor  can  we  blame  Abbot  Wace  for 
making  the  best  terms  he  could.  Can  you  not  see 
the  knights  and  the  burgesses  making  their  way  up 
the  cloisters,  where  the  mouks  were  working  or  walking, 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  &•  Co. 


Entrance  to  the  Chapter  House. 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS 


67 


through  the  door,  with  its  wealth  of  gold  and  of  carv- 
ing, past  the  graves  of  Chamberlain  Hugelin,  with  his 
wife  and  daughter,  Abbot  Eadwyn,  and  the  chronicler 
Seculdus,  into  that  “ incomparable  building  ” which  Henry 
had  determined  should  be  unequalled  in  beauty  ? Hand- 
some indeed  had  been  their  old  meeting-place,  but  this 
exceeded  anything  they  had  ever  seen.  “ In  the  centre 
rose  a slender  pillar  of  grey  marble,  or  rather  a group 
of  shafts  held  together  by  moulded  bands,  from  which 
seemed  to  spring  the  vaulted  roof ; the  building  was  eight- 
sided, in  itself  a new  idea  ; the  walls  were  richly  painted 
with  frescoes  setting  forth  the  glories  revealed  to  St. 
John  in  his  vision  of  that  New  Jerusalem,  the  city  not 
built  with  hands;  the  large  windows  had  glass  of  wondrous 
colours ; saints  stood  in  their  niches,  and  from  within 
and  without  the  Virgin  Mother  watched  over  the  place.” 
Edward  I.,  throughout  his  life,  held  the  Abbey  in 
great  reverence,  and  besides  carrying  on  his  father’s 
work  and  completing  the  choir  stalls,  he  caused  several 
magnificent  tombs  to  be  set  up  there.  Always  a de- 
voted son,  he  resolved  that  the  tomb  of  Henry  III. 
should  lack  nothing  in  beauty ; so  he  sent  to  Purbeck 
for  the  marble,  to  Eome  for  the  gold  and  glass  mosaics, 
and  to  these  he  added  the  precious  stones  of  jasper  to 
be  brought  from  France,  while  to  a certain  William 
Torrel  he  entrusted  the  work  of  carving  in  gilt  bronze 
the  fine  effigy  of  the  dead  king,  which,  save  that  it  has 
been  robbed  of  its  jewels,  is  still  in  perfect  preservation, 
stately  in  its  simplicity.  To  this  tomb  the  body  of 
Henry  was  removed ; only  his  heart,  as  he  had  himself 


68  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


desired,  was  carried  to  the  Abbey  of  Fontrevault  in  France, 
there  to  be  placed  near  to  where  his  mother,  his  uncle, 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  and  others  of  his  race  lay  buried. 

In  the  same  year  the  greatest  blow  of  his  life  fell  on 
Edward,  for  after  thirty-five  years  of  the  happiest  married 
life,  Queen  Eleanor,  “ the  good  merciful  lady  beloved  of 
all  the  English,”  died  of  slow  fever  near  Lincoln. 

“ I loved  her  with  a great  love  while  she  lived ; I 
cannot  cease  to  love  her  while  she  is  no  more,”  said 
Edward.  And  his  people  loved  him  all  the  more  for 
his  deep  grief.  He  came  straight  away  from  his  journey 
to  Scotland,  to  follow  that  sad  funeral  procession  which 
slowly  made  its  way  to  Westminster,  and  at  each  place 
where  they  paused  to  rest,  he  caused  a cross  to  be 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  “ Chere  Reine,”  one  of 
which,  as  you  know,  stood  close  to  Charing  Cross  station. 
She  was  buried  in  King  Edward’s  Chapel  at  the  feet  of 
Henry  III.,  and  once  more  the  skilful  hands  of  William 
Torrel,  “ goldsmith  and  citizen  of  London,”  fashioned 
in  gilt  copper  a wonderfully  wrought  figure,  “ the  finest 
in  any  country  ” a great  authority  has  declared,  which 
shows  us  a sweet  strong  face  at  peace  with  God,  a sleep- 
ing form,  queenly  and  beautiful.  Another  English  work- 
man, Master  Thomas  of  Leghton,  made  the  screen  of 
wrought-irou  which  protects  this  monument,  round  which 
run  the  words — 

“ Ici  Gost  Alinor,  jadis  Reine  de  Engleterre 
Femme  A1  Rey  Edward,  Fiz  le  Rey  Henri 
E Fille  A1  Rey  de  Espagne,  Contesse  de  Puntiff 
Del  Alme  de  li  Dieu  pur  sa  pitie  eyt  merei. 

Amen.” 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolzs  €r  Co. 


The  Coronation  Chair. 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS 


69 


“ The  king,  who  ioved  her  well,  as  she  deserved,  gave 
to  the  monastery  seven  or  eight  manors,  to  the  yearly 
value  of  two  hundred  pounds,  for  religious  services,  and 
for  an  anniversary  to  be  performed  for  her,  and  for  wax 
tapers  to  be  kept  burning  on  her  tomb  both  day  and 
night.” 

It  being  in  the  chapel  of  the  Confessor  that  she  who 
was  dearer  than  all  else  was  laid,  he  brought  here,  as 
if  to  lay  it  at  her  feet,  his  greatest  trophy  wrested  from 
the  Scots,  the  famous  stone  of  Scone,  on  which  so  many 
kings  of  Scotland  had  been  crowned.  This  was  put  at 
his  command  into  a chair  by  a certain  Walter  of  Durham, 
who  was  paid  one  hundred  shillings  for  his  work,  with 
an  extra  sum  of  about  £2,  12s.  for  carving,  painting,  and 
gilding  two  small  leopards,  for  the  wages  of  carpenters 
and  painters,  and  for  colours  and  gold  employed. 

When  you  look  at  this  chair,  remember  that  on  it 
every  sovereign  of  England  has  been  crowned  from  the 
reign  of  Edward  IT. 

Another  trophy  had  been  offered  to  the  shrine  of  the 
Confessor  a few  years  before,  and  that  was  the  golden 
crown  of  the  conquered  Welsh  Prince  Llewellyn.  The 
offering  had  been  solemnly  made  by  Edward’s  own  little 
son,  Alphonso,  a boy  of  twelve,  who,  dressed  from  head  to 
foot  in  chain-armour,  and  wearing  a long  cloak,  followed 
by  nobles  and  knights,  had  laid  it  down  at  the  feet 
of  the  blessed  King  Edward,  the  jewels  thereof  being 
applied  to  adorn  the  tomb.  In  the  same  year  the  little 
prince  died,  and  was  buried  in  this  chapel  of  the  kings. 

More  than  one  great  disturbance  agitated  the  Abbey 


70  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEI 


during  the  later  years  of  Edward’s  reign.  First  a fire, 
which  began  in  the  Palace,  spread  rapidly  and  caused 
much  damage  to  parts  of  the  building;  then  there  were 
several  quarrels  with  some  of  the  Begging  Friars,  a new 
Order  which  was  highly  disapproved  of  by  the  regular 
monks,  “ for  those  begging  orders  got  a great  reputation 
among  the  people,  and  likewise  were  in  high  favour  with 
the  Court  of  Rome.  But  worst  of  all,  a terrible  scandal 
arose,  which  ended  in  forty  of  the  Westminster  monks 
being  thrown  into  prison. 

King  Edward,  when  he  went  to  Scotland,  left  all  his 
jewels  and  treasures,  with  a sum  of  money,  amounting 
all  told  to  the  value  of  £100,000,  in  the  care  of  the 
Abbot,  who  carefully  put  away  most  of  this  charge  in 
the  strongly  made  Chapel  of  the  Pyx,  and  the  rest  in 
the  Refectory.  In  the  April  of  1303  a great  quantity 
of  treasure  was  stolen,  and  the  king,  very  wroth,  ordered 
a strict  investigation  to  be  made,  which  ended  in  the 
discovery  that  a certain  small  merchant  or  pedlar,  named 
Roger  Podlicote,  had  got  into  the  Abbey  during  the 
night  on  several  occasions,  and  had  carried  away  his 
booty  in  bags.  That  he  could  have  got  in  unaided  was 
impossible ; he  must  have  had  accomplices  within  the 
Abbey.  Besides,  the  Sacrist  was  found  with  a gold 
cup,  which  he  said  he  had  picked  up  outside  St. 
Margaret’s  Church.  William  the  Palmer,  keeper  of  the 
Palace,  declared  he  had  noticed  the  Sacrist,  the  sub- 
Prior,  and  many  of  the  monks,  coming  and  going  un- 
usually often,  carrying  bags  and  hampers;  while  John 
Abbas,  a workman,  told  how  Alexander  the  monk  had 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS 


7i 


caused  him  to  make  tools  of  a special  design,  threatening 
to  kill  him  if  he  spoke  aught  of  this. 

Podlicote,  a most  adventurous  spirit,  made  a full 
confession,  in  which  he  generously  took  all  the  blame 
upon  himself,  saying  he  knew  the  ways  of  the  Abbey 
and  where  the  treasury  was ; and  being  poor,  he  had 
thought  how  easily  he  could  obtain  the  goods  which  were 
in  the  Kefectory,  which  he  had  seen.  But  considering 
that  this  wholesale  robbery  went  on  for  many  months, 
it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  Master  Podlicote’s  nightly 
visits  to  the  Abbey  through  a window  in  the  Chapter- 
House  were  quite  unknown  to  the  monks,  and  no  one 
had  much  pity  for  them  when  they  were  committed  to 
the  Tower  for  two  years.  Still  it  was  a great  disgrace 
to  fall  on  a monastery  which  held  its  head  so  high  ; 
besides,  to  quote  Widmore,  “ it  was  a peculiar  baseness 
to  wrong  a prince  who  had  been  so  kind  to  their  house, 
had  readily  renewed  their  charters,  had  improved  some 
of  them,  and  had  been  very  bountiful  in  giving  them 
lands  of  great  value.” 

One  action  taken  by  the  Abbot  at  this  time,  however, 
greatly  pleased  both  the  king  and  the  people.  For  a 
certain  brave  knight,  John  de  St.  John,  governor  for 
Edward  in  Aquitaine,  having  been  decoyed  and  taken 
prisoner  by  the  French,  and  being  too  poor  to  pay  the 
large  ransom  they  demanded,  was  presented  with  a 
generous  offering  by  Abbot  Wenlock,  “a  commendable 
and  charitable  thing  of  public  service,”  comments  an  old 
writer,  “ seeing  that  monasteries  did  not  always  lay  out 
their  money  so  well  as  for  the  liberty  of  a person  in 


?2  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

high  command,  a gallant  man  whom,  while  fighting 
valiantly  for  his  prince,  the  chances  of  war  had  made 
prisoner.”  Edward’s  eventful  reign  was  drawing  to  a 
close ; already  he  was  the  oldest  king  who  had  ruled 
England,  and  his  life  had  been  a hard  one.  He  had 
never  spared  himself  in  mind  or  body ; he  had  never 
wavered  in  his  great  aims ; and  his  favourite  motto, 
Pactum  serva,  “ Keep  troth,”  words  he  had  desired  should 
be  carved  upon  his  tomb,  was  the  motto  to  which  he  had 
consistently  been  faithful.  And  yet  over  these  closing 
years  a dark  cloud  hung,  for  his  son,  young  Edward, 
showed  no  signs  of  rising  to  his  great  responsibilities. 
Tall  and  handsome  to  behold,  he  was  weak,  changeable, 
and  careless,  given  to  gambling  and  low  society,  a tool 
in  the  hands  of  first  one  and  then  another  of  his  worth- 
less friends.  The  old  king  knew  all  too  well  how  useless 
it  was  to  dream  that  his  son  would  carry  on  the  work  to 
which  he  had  devoted  himself,  but  the  knowledge  was  a 
veritable  cup  of  bitterness.  He  had  always  sought  to 
inspire  him  with  high  thoughts,  great  enthusiasms,  and 
now,  as  the  end  loomed  on  the  horizon,  he  made  one 
more  effort,  and  appealed  to  the  deepest  feelings  of  the 
young  prince.  At  the  festival  of  Whitsuntide  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  he  admitted  his  son,  with  many  other 
young  nobles,  to  the  order  of  knighthood,  and  throughout 
one  long  night  the  Prince  of  Wales  kept  his  vigil  before 
the  altar  at  the  shrine  of  the  Confessor.  Then  at  the 
royal  banquet  which  followed,  Edward,  though  so  weak 
he  could  barely  stand,  swore  solemnly  to  march  at  once 
to  Scotland  to  crush  the  rebellion  which  had  broken 


WITH  KINGS  AND  QUEENS 


73 


out  afresh  when  all  seemed  peaceful,  and  to  avenge  the 
death  of  Comyn,  who  had  been  murdered  in  the  church 
at  Dumfries  by  Kobert  Bruce.  The  Scotsmen  had  not 
kept  troth,  and  the  king  was  fierce  with  indignation. 
But  to  this  vow  Edward  added  another,  which  was 
made  also  by  the  prince  and  all  the  newly  dubbed 
knights  in  the  ball  at  Westminster;  they  pledged  them- 
selves that  so  soon  as  Bobert  Bruce  was  conquered,  they 
would  no  more  bear  arms  against  Christendom,  but 
would  go  to  the  Holy  Land  and  conquer  the  infidel,  or 
die  in  the  attempt  to  do  so. 

Without  delay,  king  and  army  set  off  for  Scotland, 
but  the  great  triumph  for  which  he  had  longed  was  not 
to  be  his.  His  spirit  was  as  strong  as  ever,  only  his 
body  failed  him.  He  struggled  bravely  on,  then  came 
a day  when  he  could  only  ride  two  miles,  and  at  last  he 
bad  to  own  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  an  enemy 
before  whom  even  his  strong  will  lay  powerless.  Near 
Carlisle  he  died,  knight  and  warrior  to  the  end.  He  en- 
treated bis  son  to  tear  himself  away  from  his  favourites, 
and  to  set  before  himself  the  conquest  of  Scotland  and 
the  recovery  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  he  asked  that  his 
bones  might  be  carried  about  with  the  army  till  Scot- 
land was  subdued,  that  his  heart  might  go  with  the  knights 
to  the  Holy  Land.  Then  with  a prayer  for  mercy  on 
his  lips  he  passed  away. 

Edward  II.  had  not  even  the  grace  to  carry  out  one 
of  these  dying  requests.  Four  months  later  Edward  was 
buried  in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel  near  to  his  father,  his 
brother,  and  his  wife,  while  to  his  memory  was  raised 


74  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBET 


only  the  plainest  tomb,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  beauti- 
ful monuments  around  it.  The  new  king  scattered  his 
money  among  his  favourites  with  too  free  a hand  to 
have  anything  to  spare  for  the  building  of  a costly 
tomb. 

Yet,  after  all,  as  you  stand  by  the  grave  of  this 
“ greatest  of  the  Plantagenets,”  and  look  at  the  simple 
unornamented  monument,  I think  you  will  feel  with  me 
that  in  its  very  simplicity  and  strength  it  is  unconsciously 
a truthful  memorial  of  Edward,  a striking  description  of 
those  qualities  which  in  life  he  loved  and  strove  after. 
He  was  a man  of  action,  not  of  words  ; a soldier,  not  a 
saint;  a statesman,  not  a dreamer.  For  Edward  the 
Confessor  there  was  a beautiful  shrine,  the  delicate 
work,  the  gold,  the  jewels,  the  angels,  and  the  martyrs. 
For  Edward  the  First  there  was  the  uncarved  block  of 
grey  rm  rble,  and  the  blunt  inscription — 

“ Here  lies  Edward  the  First,  the  Scourge  of  Scotland. 

Keep  troth.” 


CHAPTER  VI 


EDWARD  III.  AND  QUEEN  PHILIPPA 

“ The  character  of  the  reigning  Prince,  King  Edward  II., 
will  not  give  leave  to  expect  anything  of  great  service 
to  this  place,”  wrote  grimly  a chronicler  of  the  Abbey. 
Indeed,  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  crowned  here,  that 
a riot  nearly  took  place  at  the  coronation,  so  angered 
were  the  people  at  Piers  Gaveston  being  given  the  place 
of  honour  and  allowed  to  carry  the  crown,  in  defiance  of 
the  old  king’s  last  request,  and  that  he  made  an  offer- 
ing of  two  images  to  the  shrine  of  the  Confessor,  there 
is  nothing  to  tell  of  Edward’s  reign  in  connection  with 
Westminster  Abbey. 

The  country  bore  with  the  king  for  nearly  twenty 
years.  Then  the  Parliament  assembled  at  Westminster 
asserted  itself.  The  king,  all  were  agreed,  had  shown 
himself  unfit  to  rule ; he  had  violated  his  coronation 
oath,  he  had  oppressed  his  people,  and  had  lost  Scot- 
land. It  was  only  right,  therefore,  that  he  should  be 
deposed,  and  his  son,  a boy  of  great  promise,  be  chosen 
in  his  stead.  Out  of  that  great  assembly  only  four 
voices  were  raised  for  the  king,  and  a deputation  was 
sent  to  him  telling  him  what  his  Parliament  had 
resolved  to  do.  To  his  honour,  the  young  Prince 

75 


76  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Edward  refused  to  accept  the  crown  unless  with  his 
father’s  consent,  but  Edward  II.,  “ clad  in  a plain  black 
gown,”  submitted  without  a word  to  the  decree  of  the 
assembly,  and  listened  unmoved  as  they  told  him  how 
they  “rendered  and  gave  back  to  him,  once  king  of 
England,  their  homage  and  fealty,  counting  him  hence- 
forth as  a private  person,  without  any  manner  of  royal 
dignity.” 

So  Edward  III.  was  crowned  on  the  29th  of  January 
1327,  and  the  shield  with  the  sword  of  state,  Scottish 
trophies  of  his  grandfather’s  which  were  carried  before 
him,  are  the  identical  shield  and  sword  which  exist 
to-day. 

Only  fourteen  years  old  when  he  was  crowned  king, 
young  Edward  had  already  impressed  all  those  who 
came  in  contact  with  him.  Men  saw  in  him  a worthy 
successor  of  Edward  I.,  whose  great  qualities  stood  out 
in  shining  contrast  after  the  second  Edward’s  disastrous 
reign.  He  was  strong,  he  was  brave ; he,  like  his 
grandfather,  passionately  loved  justice  and  passionately 
loved  England.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  un- 
fortunate than  his  boyhood  or  his  early  education. 
For  neither  his  father  nor  his  mother  could  he  feel  the 
smallest  respect,  and  the  influences  about  the  Court 
were  of  the  worst.  A weaker  character  would  have 
been  swamped  by  circumstances,  and  would  have  sunk 
to  the  level  of  its  surroundings ; Edward  fought  his  way 
through,  and  came  out  triumphantly  on  the  other  side. 
When  he  was  sixteen  he  married  Philippa  of  Hainault, 
and  a year  later  a son  was  born  to  them.  The  delight 


EDWARD  III.  AND  QUEEN  PHILIPPA  77 


of  the  nation  was  intense ; Edward  was  deeply  touched 
at  the  signs  of  affection  everywhere  shown  to  him  by 
his  subjects,  and  he  resolved  all  the  more  earnestly,  with 
the  growing  strength  of  his  young  manhood,  to  be  a 
king  indeed,  to  rule  his  people  justly,  to  lead  them 
wisely,  to  live  up  to  the  great  things  expected  of  him. 
England  in  those  days  was  a young  nation,  just  be- 
ginning to  feel  its  power,  rejoicing  in  its  strength  and 
its  freedom,  ready  for  action,  for  adventure,  for  enter- 
prise, and  Edward  represented  in  the  highest  degree  all 
these  enthusiasms  and  aspirations.  He  was  able  to 
lead ; he  grasped  the  spirit  of  his  people ; king  and 
nation  were  at  one  in  their  aims,  so  that  into  the  years 
which  followed  were  crowded  great  deeds  and  great 
victories,  victories  made  all  the  more  honourable  by  the 
chivalrous  conduct  of  the  conquerors. 

I should  like  to  linger  over  the  stories  of  Edward  and 
his  men-at-arms,  the  knights,  the  hobblers,  and  the 
archers,  who  won  such  fame  for  England  on  foreign 
battle-fields,  but  that  would  be  to  wander  far  away  from 
Westminster,  so  we  must  leave  Crecy,  Calais,  and 
Poitiers,  and  come  back  to  the  Abbey  and  the  Monas- 
tery, this  little  world  of  itself,  where  life  went  on  in  its 
own  way,  regardless  of  wars  in  Scotland  and  France. 

As  usual,  there  were  several  disputes  in  progress,  and 
one  between  the  Abbot  and  the  king’s  treasurer  ended 
in  a lawsuit  which  lasted  both  beyond  the  Abbot’s  and 
treasurer’s  time.  The  quarrel  was  as  to  who  had  the 
right  to  visit  the  Hospital  of  St.  James,  a hospital 
founded  and  endowed  by  some  citizens  of  London  for 


;8  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


fourteen  leprous  maids,  on  the  ground  where  now  St. 
James’s  Palace  stands.  No  fewer  than  six  chaplains 
were  attached  to  this  hospital,  to  perform  divine  service 
for  the  afflicted  fourteen  lepers,  and  as  the  building 
stood  within  the  parish,  the  Abbot  declared  that  these 
chaplains  were  under  his  authority.  To  this  the  king’s 
treasurer  would  not  agree,  and  hence  the  dispute. 
Apparently  at  last  the  verdict  was  given  in  favour  of 
the  Abbot,  but  the  original  Abbot  and  treasurer  being 
dead,  and  the  new  Abbot  being  indolent,  while  the  new 
treasurer  was  grasping,  it  ended  in  an  actual  victory  for 
the  latter. 

Another  quarrel  centred  round  the  little  chapel  of 
St.  Stephen’s,  which  had  been  founded  by  Edward  I. 
within  the  Palace  at  Westminster,  and  so  liberally 
endowed  by  Edward  III.  that  it  possessed  its  own 
dean  and  canons. 

In  this  chapel  masses  were  said  daily  for  past  and 
present  kings,  while  altogether  nearly  forty  priests  were 
attached  to  the  foundation,  all  of  whom  lived  in  the 
Palace.  Quite  naturally  the  Abbot  of  Westminster 
was  not  well  pleased  at  this  rich  foundation  within  a 
stone’s  throw  of  his  Abbey,  and  insisted  that  it  should 
be  placed  under  his  jurisdiction,  a claim  which  was 
warmly  supported  by  the  Pope.  But  in  this  “ the 
people  of  St.  Stephen’s,”  who  had  the  Court  on  their 
side,  did  not  acquiesce ; and  at  last  the  king,  who  was 
not  greatly  interested  in  these  matters,  proposed  a com- 
promise, which  was  accepted.  The  Abbot  was  to  have 
the  right  of  appointing  the  dean,  and  was  to  be  paid 


EDWARD  III.  AND  QUEEN  PHILIPPA  79 


a yearly  sum  of  money  as  a tribute  to  his  authority  ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  dean  and  canons  were 
to  order  their  own  services  and  control  their  own 
affairs. 

This  chapel  of  St.  Stephen’s  was  very  beautiful,  more 
beautiful,  we  are  told,  than  St.  George’s  Chapel  at 
Windsor.  But  no  traces  remain  of  it  or  of  its  cloisters 
and  its  chantry  except  the  crypt.  In  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  Westminster  Palace  was  seriously  de- 
stroyed by  fire,  and  the  chapel  was  then  altered,  turned 
from  its  original  use,  and  given  over  to  the  House  of 
Commons  as  their  Parliament  House,  another  link,  you 
see,  between  the  Palace,  the  Church,  and  the  People. 

In  the  year  1349  the  Black  Death,  that  most  terrible 
plague,  swept  over  England,  killing  nearly  one  half  of 
the  people  ; fifty  thousand  of  its  victims  were  buried 
in  London,  and  the  Abbey  wras  not  spared,  for  the 
Abbot  and  twenty-six  of  the  monks  caught  it  and  died. 
They  were  buried  in  one  grave  in  the  south  cloister, 
covered  by  a large  stone,  which  you  will  easily  find, 
although  it  has  a wrong  name,  that  of  Gervase  de  Blois, 
carved  upon  it ; and  that  vast  stone,  says  Dean  Stanley, 

“ is  the  footmark  left  in  the  Abbey  by  the  greatest 
plague  which  ever  swept  over  Europe.” 

Abbot  Bircheston,  who  thus  died,  had  not  been  very 
satisfactory.  “ It  is  well  of  this  place  that  he  continued 
no  longer,”  says  the  chronicler  severely ; “ for  he  ran  the 
house  into  a great  deal  of  debt,  being  himself  extrava- 
gant and  his  relations  being  wasteful  people.”  His  sue- 


So  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


cessor  was  that  remarkable  man  Simon  Langham,  the 
only  Abbot  of  Westminster  who  ever  became  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  and  he  did  such  great  things  for  the 
monastery  that  he  won  for  himself  the  name  of  the 
second  founder.  Not  only  did  he  pay  off  the  debts  of 
his  predecessors,  but  he  managed  with  great  prudence 
all  the  estates  and  revenues  under  his  care,  saved  large 
sums  of  money  by  his  frugality,  and,  perhaps  most 
difficult  task  of  all,  brought  the  house  once  more  into 
excellent  discipline.  This  is  what  Flete,  himself  a 
monk  at  Westminster,  has  to  say  of  Abbot  Langham : 
“ He  rectified  many  abuses  which  had  crept  in,  truly 
a service  as  it  is  most  useful  to  any  place,  so  commonly 
is  it  the  most  difficult  also ; and  accordingly  it  cost  him 
a great  deal  of  study,  pains,  and  resolution  to  effect  it, 
as  having  many  ill  tempers  to  deal  with,  some  being 
indolent,  others  odd  and  particular,  some  extravagant, 
and  others  perverse.” 

While  he  was  Archbishop,  and  afterwards  when  made 
a cardinal  and  living  abroad,  he  never  forgot  the 
Abbey  where  he  had  been  educated  and  where  he 
had  laid  the  foundation  of  his  great  career,  but  left  to 
it  a sum  equal  to  £ 200,000  to  be  spent  on  building, 
and  desired  that  he  should  be  buried  there.  So  you 
will  find  his  tomb  of  marble  and  alabaster  in  the  little 
chapel  of  St.  Benedict  at  the  entrance  to  the  south 
ambulatory,  the  first  monument  of  any  importance  set 
up  to  the  memory  of  a bishop  or  abbot. 

He  was  followed  by  the  Prior,  Nicholas  Litlington, 
“a  stirring  person,  very  useful  to  the  monastery,”  whose 


EDWARD  III.  AND  QUEEN  PHILIPPA  81 


mind  was  set  on  improving  the  buildings.  This  was  an 
easy  task  enough,  thanks  to  the  legacy  of  Langham  and 
the  good  favour  in  which  he  stood  with  king  and  queen. 
So  at  once  he  set  to  work,  the  monastery  being  the 
object  of  his  care.  He  built  the  south  and  west 
cloisters,  setting  his  initials  on  the  roof;  the  Abbot’s 
Palace,  the  College  Hall,  the  Jerusalem  Chamber,  houses 
for  the  bailiff,  the  cellarer,  the  infirmaries,  and  the 
sacrist,  a malt-house  and  a water-mill;  and  besides  this 
he  presented  the  Abbey  with  much  valuable  plate  and 
many  rich  vestments. 

“ But,”  remarks  an  old  writer  severely,  “ as  he  was 
enabled  to  do  all  this  with  the  money  left  by  his  pre- 
decessor Langham,  he  should  have  put  some  memorial 
of  the  Cardinal  upon  the  buildings.  Instead,  he  has 
his  own  arms  and  the  initial  letters  of  his  name  on  the 
keystone  of  the  cloister  arches.” 

The  Abbot’s  house  built  by  Litlington  is  the  present 
Deanery  ; but  the  College  Hall,  once  the  Abbot’s  refectory, 
now  the  dining-hall  of  the  Westminster  scholars,  and  the 
Jerusalem  Chamber,  the  room  into  which  the  Abbot’s 
guests  used  to  pass  when  they  had  dined,  are  open  to 
the  public  at  certain  hours,  and  you  must  not  forget 
them  when  you  are  walking  through  the  cloisters. 
The  Jerusalem  Chamber  has  been  restored  since  the 
days  of  Litlington,  though  the  fine  roof  and  the  actual 
building  stand  now  as  then.  The  glass  in  one  of  the 
windows,  however,  is  very  old,  as  is  the  wonderful  stone 
reredos,  which  once  must  have  been  part  of  the  high 
altar.  In  the  dining-hall  you  must  notice  the  gallery 

p 


82  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


at  the  one  end  in  which  the  minstrels  used  to  perform, 
and  the  fine  pointed  windows ; for  as  the  Norman  archi- 
tecture had  given  way  to  the  Early  English,  and  the 
Early  English  had  developed  into  the  beautiful  Deco- 
rated style,  so  now  another  change  was  taking  place,  of 
which  Litlington’s  building  is  an  early  example,  and 
the  Perpendicular  style,  which  was  entirely  English,  was 
creeping  in. 

While  Litlington  was  abbot,  another  royal  funeral 
took  place  in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel,  for  in  1369,  “that 
moost  gentyll,  moost  lyberall,  and  moost  courtesse  fayre 
lady,  Phillipp  of  Heynault,  died.” 

This  is  how  a writer  living  at  the  time  quaintly 
describes  the  sad  event : “ There  fell  in  England  a 

heavy  case  and  a comon,  righte  pyteouse  for  the  King, 
his  children  and  all  his  realme.  For  the  good  Queen 
of  England  fell  sicke,  the  which  sickenesse  contynewed 
on  her  so  longe,  that  there  was  no  remedye  but  deathe. 
And  the  good  lady  whenne  she  this  knewe  and  per- 
ceyved,  desyred  to  speke  with  the  Kynge,  her  husbande. 
And  she  sayde,  ‘ Sir,  we  have  in  peace,  ioye,  and  great 
prosperyte,  used  all  our  time  toguyer.  Sir,  nowe  I pray 
you  at  our  departyng,  that  ye  will  grant  me  my  desyres. 
. . . I requyre  you,  that  it  may  please  you  to  take  none 
other  sepulture  whensoever  it  shall  please  God  to  call 
you  out  of  this  transytorie  lyfe,  but  besyde  me  in  West- 
mynster.’ 

“ The  Kynge  all  weepynge  sayde,  ‘ Madam,  I graunt 
all  your  desyre.’  Then  the  good  ladye  made  on  her  the 
sign  of  the  Cross,  and  anone  after  she  yielded  up  her 


EDWARD  III.  AND  QUEEN  PHILIPPA  83 


spiryte,  the  which  I beleeve  surely  the  Holy  Angels 
receyved  with  great  ioy  up  to  Heven,  for,  in  all  her 
lyfe,  she  dyd  neyther  in  thought  nor  dede,  thynge 
whereby  to  lose  her  soule,  so  farr  as  any  creature  coulde 
knowe.” 

Her  tomb  was  ordered  to  be  made  of  “ neat  black 
marble,  with  her  image  thereon  in  polished  alabaster, 
and  round  the  pedestal,  sweetly  carved  niches,  with 
images  therein.”  But  what  makes  this  monument 
specially  interesting  is  that  the  figure  of  Queen  Philippa 
is  really  a likeness  and  not  a beautiful  fancy  picture,  so 
that  as  you  look  at  that  kind,  motherly  face  you  can 
quite  easily  picture  to  yourself  the  queen  who  pleaded 
for  the  lives  of  the  citizens  of  Calais,  and  of  whom  it 
was  said  at  her  death,  “ She  had  done  many  good 
deeds  in  her  lyfe ; having  succoured  so  many  knyghts 
and  comforted  ladyes  and  damosels.” 

Eight  years  later,  King  Edward  was  laid  beside  her,  all 
the  glory  of  his  life  having  passed  from  him  with  her. 

“ In  his  time,  England  had  seemed  to  shine  in  her 
meridian ; learning  was  encouraged ; gallantry,  and  that 
the  most  honourable,  was  practised ; the  subjects  were 
beloved  ; the  king  was  honoured  at  home  and  feared 
abroad.”  But  after  Philippa’s  death  strength  of  mind 
and  body  alike  failed  him ; his  favourite  sou,  the  Black 
Prince,  had  died ; his  other  sons  neglected  him,  his 
courtiers  robbed  him,  and  when  the  end  came,  there 
was  only  a poor  priest  by  his  bedside,  who  pressed  the 
crucifix  to  his  lips  and  caught  his  last  dying  word — 
Jesus. 


84  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


His  funeral,  however,  was  magnificent ; he  was 
carried  through  London  with  his  face  uncovered,  fol- 
lowed by  his  children  and  by  the  nobles  and  prelates 
of  England,  and  afterwards  a fine  tomb  was  set  up 
to  him  with  figures  of  his  twelve  children  kneeling 
around. 

But  it  was  only  round  the  tomb  and  in  the  sculptor’s 
fancy  that  those  strong,  high-spirited  sons  of  Edward 
and  Philippa  knelt  in  one  accord,  for  from  them  arose 
the  quarrels  and  strife  which  later  on  brought  to 
England  the  greatest  calamity  which  can  come  to  any 
nation — a civil  war  in  its  midst. 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  & Co. 


Tombs  of  Richard  II.  and  Edward  III. 


CHAPTER  VII 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE 

Edwakd  the  Elack  Prince,  that  flower  of  English 
chivalry,  had  left  his  little  son  Richard  as  his  legacy 
to  the  people  who  loved  him  so  well. 

“ I commend  to  you  my  son,”  he  said,  as  he  lay 
dying  in  Westminster  Palace,  “ for  he  is  but  young 
and  small.  And  I pray  that  as  you  have  served  me, 
so  from  your  heart  you  will  serve  him.” 

One  year  afterwards,  this  boy  of  eleven  was  crowned 
in  Westminster,  and  so  “ young  and  small  ” was  he 
that  the  long  day  with  all  its  wearying  ceremony  was 
too  much  for  him ; he  fainted  away,  and  had  to  be 
carried  from  the  Abbey  to  the  Palace  on  a litter. 

Never  before  had  there  been  a coronation  on  so 
magnificent  a scale : the  citizens  of  London,  with  their 
good  wives  and  daughters,  were  learning  to  enjoy 
pageants  and  holidays,  and  it  was  now  better  than 
half  a century  since  a king  had  been  crowned.  First 
Richard  had  spent  some  days  in  the  Tower,  that  great 
fort  of  the  capital,  and  then  had  come  the  wonderful 
procession  through  Cheapside,  Fleet  Street,  and  the 
Strand,  the  boy  riding  bareheaded,  surrounded  by  a 

band  of  young  knights  in  new  attire,  forerunners  of 

8s 


86  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


the  knightly  Order  of  the  Bath,  winning  all  hearts  by 
his  beautiful  face  and  his  lavish  generosity.  For  the 
young  king  was  from  the  first  recklessly  extravagant, 
and  while  he  with  his  nobles  feasted  in  the  Palace  at 
the  coronation  banquet,  he  caused  the  fountains  outside 
to  pour  forth  wine  in  abundance,  that  all  who  would 
might  drink  to  their  heart’s  desire. 

John  of  Gaunt,  his  uncle,  one  of  those  many  sons  of 
Edward  III.,  was  made  Regent,  and  Richard,  with  the 
approbation  of  all,  was  placed  under  the  tutorship  of  that 
accomplished  knight,  Guiscard  d’Angle,  Earl  of  Hunting- 
don, to  be  instructed  in  the  paths  of  virtue  and  honour. 

But  those  were  not  peaceful  days  in  England,  and 
John  of  Gaunt  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  defying  the 
knights  of  the  shire  and  burgesses  who  composed  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  who  really  represented  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  people. 

“ What  do  these  base  and  ignoble  knights  attempt  ? ” 
he  asked  contemptuously.  “Do  they  think  they  be 
kings  or  princes  in  the  land  ? ” 

Nevertheless,  in  the  end  he  was  forced  to  flee  from 
England,  so  bitter  was  the  feeling  against  him.  The 
cause  of  the  universal  discontent  was  the  heavy  taxation, 
the  result  of  the  long  French  wars,  and  the  Bishop 
of  Rochester,  in  his  sermon  at  the  coronation,  had  boldly 
touched  on  this  with  words  of  solemn  warning.  For  the 
first  time  the  great  peasant  population  of  England,  who 
had  hitherto  suffered  in  resentful  silence,  was  in  a posi- 
tion to  lift  up  a voice  of  protest,  as  the  Black  Death 
had  so  ravaged  the  country  that  those  labourers  who 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE  87 

were  left  were  able  to  make  terms  for  them- 
selves, and  to  refuse  to  work  without  payment.  The 
tax  which  brought  the  discontent  to  a crowning  point 
was  the  poll-tax,  which  was  a tax  of  twelve  pence 
(about  eighteen  shillings)  to  be  paid  by  every  person 
over  fifteen;  and  when  a certain  Wat  the  Tiler  killed  a 
tax-collector,  who,  not  content  with  trying  to  force  him 
into  paying  this  poll-tax,  insulted  his  little  daughter,  the 
men  of  Kent  rallied  in  their  thousands  round  Wat  and 
marched  on  London.  Richard  was  now  only  fifteen,  but 
he  was  at  his  best,  full  of  courage,  full  of  strength, 
worthy  grandson  of  Edward  III.,  true  son  of  Edward  the 
Black  Prince.  He  determined  to  ride  out  with  a small 
escort  and  meet  these  thousands  of  rebels  face  to  face. 
It  was  a bold  stroke,  and  he  knew  the  risk.  But  he 
would  not  be  stayed.  There  is  a story,  most  probably 
true,  that  he  consulted  the  aged  Anchorite  of  the  Abbey, 
for  every  monastery  of  importance  had  its  Anchorite,  a 
monk  who  voluntarily  set  himself  apart  for  the  rest  of 
his  life  to  live  in  one  cell,  praying  for  the  house ; and 
more  than  one  of  the  Anchorites  of  Westminster  had 
given  counsel  to  the  kings  who  sought  them  out,  the 
words  of  these  holy  men  being  held  as  sacred.  Certain  it 
is  that,  on  the  morning  of  this  eventful  day,  he,  with  his 
escort,  heard  mass  in  the  Abbey,  paid  his  devotions,  and 
made  his  offerings  at  King  Edward’s  shrine,  “ in  which,” 
says  an  old  writer,  “ the  kings  of  England  have  great 
faith.”  Then  he  rode  out  to  Smithfield. 

“ Here  is  the  king,”  said  Wat  Tiler  to  his  men.  “ I 
will  go  speak  with  him.  When  I give  you  a sign,  step 


88  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


forward  and  kill  every  one  except  the  king.  Hurt  him 
not,  for  lie  is  young  and  we  can  do  what  we  will  with 
him.  We  will  lead  him  with  us  about  all  England,  so 
shall  we  be  lords  of  the  kingdom  without  a doubt.” 

But  in  a few  minutes,  as  you  know,  the  scene  had 
changed.  Wat  Tiler  lay  dead,  and  the  boy  king,  order- 
ing that  not  one  of  his  attendants  should  follow  him, 
rode  forward  into  the  midst  of  the  excited  crowd,  and 
said  calmly,  “ Sirs,  what  aileth  you  ? I will  be  your 
leader  and  captain.  I am  your  king.” 

The  men  were  Englishmen,  and  this  cool  courage  won 
their  hearts  on  the  spot.  They  crowded  round  the  king 
begging  for  pardon,  which  he  granted  to  them  at  once, 
forbidding  his  followers  to  strike  a blow.  And  so  the 
great  rebellion  ended. 

As  he  rode  back  to  London,  Richard  stopped  to  re- 
assure his  mother. 

“ Rejoice  and  thank  God,  madam,”  he  said,  kissing 
her,  “ for  I have  this  day  regained  my  inheritance  and 
the  kingdom  which  I had  lost.” 

If  only  the  king  had  been  true  to  the  promise  of  his 
boyhood,  he  might  have  ranked  among  the  greatest  of 
our  rulers.  As  it  was,  he  went  on  his  way  unchecked, 
uncontrolled,  till  one  after  another  his  good  points 
sank  into  the  background;  cowardice  took  the  place  of 
courage,  cruelty  of  chivalry,  and  he  who  had  said  con- 
fidently to  his  people,  “ I will  be  your  leader  and  your 
captain,”  proved  himself  to  be  utterly  incapable  and 
helpless. 

A year  later  Richard  married  Princess  Anne  of 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE  89 


Bohemia,  the  sister  of  that  “good  King  Wencelaus,” 
about  whom  was  written  the  Christmas  Carol  you  know 
so  well,  and  on  their  wedding  day  there  were  great  feast- 
ings  at  Westminster.  All  the  city  guilds  and  companies, 
splendidly  arrayed,  came  out  to  do  honour  to  the  rosy- 
cheeked  and  smiling  girl  queen,  herself  only  sixteen  ; and 
when  at  his  coronation  she  entreated  the  king  as  a favour 
to  set  free  all  prisoners  in  the  country,  the  delighted 
citizens  gave  her  the  name  of  “ Our  Good  Queen 
Anne.” 

The  young  king  spent  much  of  his  time  in  his  Palace 
of  Westminster,  and  as  you  look  to-day  at  Westminster 
Hall,  the  only  part  of  the  fine  building  which  stands,  I 
want  you  to  try  and  imagine  all  the  busy  life  which 
centred  there  round  the  court  and  the  church.  Every- 
thing connected  with  Richard  was  done  on  a magnificent 
scale.  He  had  a body-guard  of  four  thousand  archers ; 
he  had  a band  of  nearly  four  hundred  workmen — 
carpenters,  jewellers,  armourers,  masons,  tilers,  furriers — 
whose  duty  it  was  to  work  everything  needed  for  the 
king’s  service,  and  these,  with  their  wives  and  children, 
lived  under  the  shadow  of  Westminster.  Then  there 
were  all  the  servants  connected  with  the  royal  kitchen, 
the  pantry,  spicery,  buttery,  bakehouse,  and  brewery, 
and  there  must  have  been  a goodly  number  of  these,  for 
a writer  who  belonged  to  the  court  tells  us  that  every 
day  ten  thousand  folk  that  “ followed  the  Hous  ” drew 
their  rations  of  food  from  the  Palace. 

Besides  all  these  we  must  count  the  higher  court 
officials,  the  members  of  the  royal  household,  the  judges 


90  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


who  sat  in  Westminster  Hall,  the  priests  of  St.  Stephen’s 
Chapel,  the  bishops  and  abbots  and  nobles  with  all  their 
retinues,  and  then  we  may  have  some  idea  of  the  bustle 
and  life  round  Westminster  Palace  at  a time  when  there 
was  “ greate  pride,  and  riche  arraye,  and  all  things  much 
more  costious  and  more  precious  than  was  before  or 
sith.” 

Look  at  Old  Palace  Yard  and  New  Palace  Yard, 
with  the  dull  old  streets  leading  out  of  them,  and 
then  imagine  Richard’s  Palace,  with  its  towers,  its 
posterns,  its  great  halls  and  painted  chambers,  its 
cloisters,  its  courts,  and  its  galleries ; “ gabled  houses 
with  carved  timber  and  plastered  fronts,  cloisters  which 
glowed  in  the  sunshine  with  their  lace  like  tracery, 
with  the  gold  and  crimson  of  their  painted  roofs  and 
walls ; everywhere  tourelles  with  rich  carvings,  windows 
of  tracery  most  beautiful,  archways,  gates,  battlements ; 
chantry  chapels,  oratories,  courts  of  justice,  and  interiors 
bright  with  splendid  tapestry,  the  colours  of  which  had 
not  yet  faded,  with  canopies  of  scarlet  and  gold,  and 
the  sunlight  reflected  from  many  a shining  helm  and 
breastplate,  from  many  a jewelled  hilt  and  golden 
scabbard.”  Would  that  the  Great  Fire  which  destroyed 
all  this  had  left  us  one  little  glimpse  of  its  old  splendour. 

Inside  the  monastery,  too,  there  was  plenty  of  life 
of  a different  sort,  though  the  monks  were  by  no  means 
cut  off  from  the  great  world  which  lay  at  their  door. 
For  the  Abbey  of  St.  Peter  was  the  richest  of  all  the 
great  houses,  and  was  now  at  the  height  of  its  glory ; 
and  Litlington’s  new  buildings  greatly  added  to  its 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE  91 


importance,  as  the  Abbot  freely  entertained  in  his  new 
palace  the  highest  in  the  land. 

Yet  a daily  routine  was  carried  out.  Eight  hours  were 
given  to  sleep  and  eight  were  spent  in  church ; the  re- 
mainder were  devoted  to  work — that  is  to  say,  some 
monks  taught  the  young,  others  studied  and  transcribed, 
others  had  duties  in  the  refectory  and  dormitory,  and  so 
on.  Most  of  the  monks  had  come  here  as  young  boys ; 
many  of  them  spent  here  fifty  and  sixty  years  of  their 
lives,  praying,  working,  teaching,  learning.  But  I think 
sometimes  the  young  men  must  have  longed  for  some 
share  in  the  life  outside  of  which  they  heard  the  echoes 
daily,  and  saw  all  the  outward  splendours  and  delights. 

Certain  it  is  that  Abbot  Litlington  was  something 
more  than  a monk.  For  when,  during  the  reign  of 
Richard,  there  was  a great  scare  that  the  French  were 
about  to  invade  England,  he,  though  at  that  time 
seventy,  armed  himself  and  set  off  with  some  of  his 
monks  to  the  coast  to  defend  his  country.  And  we 
find  that  “ one  of  these  monks,  Brother  John,  supposing 
his  courage  equal  to  his  stature,  was  a very  proper  person 
for  a soldier,  being  one  of  the  largest  men  in  the  kingdom. 
His  armour,  the  invasion  not  taking  place,  was  carried 
into  London  to  be  sold,  being  so  big  that  no  person 
could  be  found  of  a size  that  it  would  fit.” 

One  other  part  of  vanished  Westminster  comes  into 
prominence  in  this  reign,  and  that  is  its  Sanctuary, 
which  stood  where  now  is  Westminster  Hospital.  It 
was  a massive  square  keep  built  of  stone,  each  side 
nearly  eighty  feet  long,  with  a heavy  oak  and  iron  door, 


92  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


stone  stairs,  strong  dark  rooms  and  thick  walls,  and  besides 
a belfry  tower,  in  which  hung  those  bells  which  rang 
for  coronations  and  tolled  for  royal  funerals ; it  contained 
two  chapels.  This  place  was  the  haven  of  refuge  alike  to 
innocent  and  to  guilty ; so  long  as  they  remained  within 
its  walls  the  Church  protected  them  and  kept  them. 
Of  course,  originally  these  sanctuaries  attached  to  the 
religious  houses  had  been  intended  to  protect  the  weak, 
the  helpless,  and  the  oppressed,  but  gradually  all  manner 
of  men,  thieves,  debtors,  and  law-breakers,  gathered 
round  it,  and  at  Westminster,  where  all  the  Abbey 
buildings  were  counted  as  sacred  ground,  strange  and 
lawless  crowds  assembled ; but  the  right  of  sanctuary 
was  jealously  guarded. 

Outside  the  world  of  Westminster  the  country  was 
full  of  discontent,  which  showed  itself  in  parties  and 
in  plots.  John  of  Gaunt  had  fled,  and  his  place  had 
been  filled  by  his  brother,  Thomas  Woodstock,  Duke 
of  Gloucester,  who,  with  Gaunt’s  son,  Henry  of  Boling- 
broke,  and  other  nobles,  had  forced  Richard,  still  a 
minor,  into  accepting  several  of  their  demands.  But 
directly  he  was  of  age  Richard  had  his  revenge ; and 
in  the  Council  Chamber  he  made  it  clear  that  he  in- 
tended to  keep  all  the  authority  in  his  own  hands  or  in 
the  hands  of  those  he  himself  should  choose.  Francis, 
a scribe,  and  the  lame  Clerk  to  the  Council,  has  left  us 
a vivid  picture  of  the  scene. 

“ Then  Richard  stood  in  the  doorway ; upon  his  head 
he  wore  a crown ; in  his  hand  he  carried  his  sceptre ; 
on  his  shoulders  hung  a mantle  of  ermine,  and  through 


EICHAED  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE 


93 


the  door  I saw  a throng  of  armed  men,  and  heard  the 
clank  of  steel. 

“ Since  the  time  of  David  there  had  not  been  a more 
comely  prince  in  the  world  to  look  upon  than  King 
Eichard.  . . . Yet  let  no  one  say  that  his  eyes  were 
soft.  This  morning  they  were  like  the  eyes  of  a falcon. 

“ ‘ Good,  my  lord,’  began  the  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

“ The  King  strode  across  the  room  and  took  his  seat 
upon  the  throne. 

" ‘ Fair  uncle,’  he  said,  ‘ tell  me  how  old  I am.’ 

‘“Your  Highness,’  said  the  Duke,  ‘is  now  in  his 
twenty-fourth  year.’ 

“ ‘ Say  you  so  ? Then,  fair  uncle,  I am  old  enough 
to  manage  mine  own  affairs.’ 

“ So  saying,  he  took  the  Great  Seal  from  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  the  keys  of  the  Exchequer  from  the  Bishop 
of  Hereford.  From  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  he  took  his 
office,  he  appointed  new  judges,  he  created  a new  coun- 
cil. ’Twas  a gallant  prince.  Alas ! that  he  was  not 
always  strong ; twice  in  his  life  Eichard  was  strong — 
that  day  and  another.  That  night  there  was  high 
revelry  in  the  Palace : the  mummers  and  the  minstrels 
and  the  music  made  the  Court  merry.  And  the  king’s 
fool  made  the  courtiers  laugh  when  he  jested  about  the 
Duke’s  amazement  and  the  Archbishop’s  discomfiture.” 

Eichard  now  fell  entirely  under  the  influence  of  his 
own  favourites,  and  the  friction  between  himself  and  his 
Parliament  increased  each  year.  The  one  good  influence 
in  his  life  was  that  of  Queen  Anne ; over  and  over  again 
her  sound  sense  saved  the  situation.  Once  Eichard, 


94  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


in  a fit  of  sulkiness,  had  gone  to  live  at  Bristol,  very 
privately,  and  to  him  there  came  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  who  warned  him  that  unless  he  returned  to 
London  the  citizens  of  London  and  the  greater  part  of 
his  subjects  would  be  very  discontented.  Richard  at 
first  refused  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  Archbishop,  but 
at  last  the  good  advice  of  the  queen  prevailed ; he 
controlled  his  anger  and  said  he  would  cheerfully  go  to 
London.  On  his  arrival  there,  a special  Parliament  was 
summoned,  which  made  London  and  Westminster  very 
crowded ; the  king  heard  Mass  with  the  crown  on  his 
head  in  the  chapel  of  the  Palace ; the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  performed  the  divine  service,  and  was  very 
attentively  heard,  for  he  was  an  excellent  preacher ; and 
then  came  the  barons,  prelates,  and  nobles  to  Richard, 
with  joined  hands,  as  showing  themselves  to  be  vassals, 
swearing  faith  and  loyalty,  and  kissing  him  on  the 
mouth. 

“ But  it  was  visible,”  adds  Froissart,  “ that  the  king 
kissed  some  heartily  and  others  not.” 

Possibly,  if  Anne  had  lived,  her  sensible  influence 
might  have  saved  Richard,  in  spite  of  the  growing  irrita- 
tion of  his  people  at  his  reckless  extravagance.  But 
after  only  a few  hours’  illness  the  queen  died  at  the 
Feast  of  Whitsuntide  1394,  in  Sheen  Palace,  “to  the 
infinite  distress  of  King  Richard,  who  was  deeply 
afflicted  at  her  death.” 

Richard  was  with  her  when  she  died,  and  so  uncon- 
trolled was  his  grief,  that,  cursing  the  place  of  her  death, 
he  ordered  the  Palace  of  Sheen  to  be  levelled  to  the 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE  95 


ground.  He  determined  that  hers  should  be  the  greatest 
burial  ever  seen  in  London,  and  sent  to  Flanders  for 
large  quantities  of  wax  wherewith  to  have  made  the 
torches  and  flambeaux,  though  this  delayed  the  funeral 
by  some  months.  He  summoned  all  the  nobles  of  the 
land  to  be  present  in  these  words : — 

“ Inasmuch  as  our  beloved  companion  the  Queen, 
whom  God  has  hence  commanded,  will  be  buried  at 
Westminster  on  Monday,  the  3rd  of  August  next,  we 
earnestly  entreat  that  you,  setting  aside  all  excuses,  will 
repair  to  our  city  of  London  the  Wednesday  previous  to 
the  same  day,  bringing  with  you  our  very  dear  kins- 
woman your  consort  at  the  same  time.  We  desire  that 
you  will,  the  preceding  day,  accompany  the  corpse  of 
our  dear  consort  from  our  manor  of  Sheen  to 
Westminster,  and  for  this  we  trust  we  may  rely 
on  you,  as  you  desire  our  honour  and  that  of  our 
kingdom.” 

So  a great  procession  followed  the  queen  from  Sheen 
to  Westminster,  and  all  were  clothed  in  black,  men  and 
women,  with  black  hoods  also.  Richard  behaved  as  one 
mad  with  grief,  and  when  the  Earl  of  Arundel  arrived 
late,  he  seized  a cane,  and  struck  him  on  the  head  with 
such  force  that  the  unfortunate  nobleman  fell  to  the 
ground. 

A year  later  the  king  ordered  the  beautiful  monument 
which  you  see  in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel,  and  so  great 
was  his  devotion  that  he  had  his  own  monument  made 
at  the  same  time,  with  his  hand  clasped  in  that  of 
his  dearly  loved  queen.  And  the  touching  inscription, 


g6  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


of  which  this  is  a translation,  was  of  his  own 
choosing : — 

“ Under  this  stone  lies  Anne,  here  entombed, 

Wedded  in  this  world’s  life  to  the  second  Richard. 

To  Christ  were  her  meek  virtues  devoted, 

His  poor  she  freely  fed  from  her  treasures. 

Strife  she  healed  and  feuds  she  appeased. 

Beauteous  her  form,  her  face  surpassing  fair. 

Only  July’s  seventh  day,  thirteen  hundred,  ninety  four, 

All  comfort  was  bereft,  for  through  irremediable  sickness 
She  passed  away  into  eternal  joys.” 

In  spite  of  his  grief,  which  was  very  real,  Richard 
married  again ; but  the  new  queen  had  no  influence 
with  him,  and  the  breach  between  him  and  his  people 
widened  daily.  “ Nothing  but  complaints  were  heard ; 
the  courts  of  justice  were  closed ; the  enmities  in- 
creased, and  the  common  people  said,  ‘ Times  are  sadly 
changed  ; we  have  a good-for-nothing  king,  who  only 
attends  to  his  idle  pleasures,  and  so  that  his  inclinations 
are  gratified  cares  not  how  public  affairs  are  managed. 
We  must  look  for  a remedy,  or  our  enemies  and  well- 
wishers  will  rejoice.’  ” 

So  writes  Froissart,  who  lived  in  England  at  the 
time ; and  he  goes  on  to  say  how  the  people  declared 
to  one  another,  “ Our  ancestors  in  former  days  provided 
a remedy  ; our  remedy  is  in  Henry  of  Lancaster.  Him 
we  must  send  for  and  appoint  him  regent  of  the 
kingdom.  For  these  people  are  most  obstinate,  and 
of  all  England,  the  Londoners  are  the  leaders.” 

This  being  the  feeling  in  the  country,  the  time  was 
ripe  for  John  of  Gaunt’s  banished  son,  Henry  Boling- 


Henry  of  Lancaster  crowned  at  Westminster. 


RICHARD  II.  AND  QUEEN  ANNE  97  * 


broke,  who  had  long  been  waiting  for  his  hour.  He 
landed  with  but  thirty  men,  while  Richard  was  away 
on  one  of  his  highly  unpopular  expeditions  in  Ireland ; 
soon  he  had  an  army  of  fifty  thousand  with  which  he 
marched  to  London,  and  Richard  when  he  returned  agreed 
meekly,  without  a word,  to  all  that  was  demanded.  He 
signed  a deed  prepared  by  Parliament  in  which  he  said 
that  “ he  was  incapable  of  reigning,  worthy  to  be  de- 
posed, and  willing  to  renounce  the  throne.” 

“ If  it  pleases  you,  it  pleases  me  also,”  was  his  feeble 
remark. 

Then  he  was  put  into  prison,  first  in  the  Tower, 
afterwards  in  Pontefract  Castle,  and  from  this  last 
place  he  never  came  out  alive.  His  death  was  very 
sudden ; some  said  he  fell  sick,  some  said  he  was 
starved,  almost  certainly  he  was  murdered.  He  was 
buried  at  Langley,  though  many  a long  year  after- 
wards his  body  was  moved  to  Westminster  by  command 
of  Henry  V.,  and  laid  in  the  tomb  he  had  chosen  close 
to  his  wife,  after  it  had  been  carried  through  London 
followed  by  20,000  persons,  of  whom  “some  on  him 
had  pity  and  some  none.” 

So  husband  and  wife  lie  united  at  last  under  this 
fine  tomb,  which  cost  £10,000  in  our  money.  But 
in  one  detail  Richard’s  wish  is  ungratified  to-day,  for 
his  hand  and  hers,  which  on  the  monument  were  clasped 
together,  have  been  ruthlessly  broken  off. 

Another  memorial  of  Richard  in  the  Abbey  is  his 
portrait,  which  you  will  find  in  the  choir  near  the 
altar,  and  which  is  “ an  ancient  painting  of  the 

G 


98  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


unhappy,  beautiful  prince,  sitting  in  a chair  of  gold 
dressed  in  a vest  of  green,  flowered  with  flowers  of 
gold  and  the  initial  letters  of  his  name,  having  on 
shoes  of  gold  powdered  with  pearls,  the  whole  robed 
in  crimson  lined  with  ermine,  and  the  shoes  spread 
with  the  same  fastened  under  a collar  of  gold.”  It 
is  valuable  because  it  is  the  first  portrait  we  have  of 
an  English  king. 

Richard  rebuilt  Westminster  Hall,  and  built  a fine 
porch  called  Solomon’s  Porch,  where  now  stands  the 
great  north  entrance ; but  of  this  porch  not  a trace 


remains. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


nENRY  V.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 

On  the  last  day  of  September  1388,  Westminster  was 
well  astir,  for  Parliament  had  met  to  decide  an  all- 
important  question. 

Richard  had  renounced  the  crown,  and  his  cousin, 
Henry  of  Lancaster,  claimed  it. 

“ Risyng  from  his  place,  mekeley  makyne  the  signe  of 
the  Crosse,  he  saide  unto  the  people,  ‘ In  the  name  of 
the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  I,  Henry  of  Lancaster, 
claim  the  realme  of  Englande  and  the  crowne,  as  that  I 
am  dyscended  by  righte  lyne  of  bloode  from  that  good 
Lord  King  Henry  III.”  Moreover,  he  proceeded  to 
make  clear,  Richard  had  resigned  the  crown  into  his 
hands,  and  he  had  also  won  it  by  right  of  conquest. 

Then  the  Archbishop  asked  the  assembly  if  they 
would  have  Henry  for  king,  to  which  with  one  voice 
they  answered  “ Ye,  ye,  ye,”  and  after  that  the  Arch- 
bishop led  Henry  to  the  king’s  throne  and  set  him 
thereon  with  great  reverence,  making  to  him  a long 
“ oryson  ” from  the  words,  “ When  I was  a child,  I 
spake  as  a child ; but  at  the  time  when  I came  unto  the 
state  of  a man,  I put  away  childish  things.” 

“ A chylde,”  he  said,  “ will  lyghtly  promise  and  as 

99 


ioo  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


lyghtly  brake  his  promise,  doing  all  thinges  that  his  fancye 
giveth  him  unto,  and  forgettinge  lyghtly  what  he  hath 
done.  By  which  reason  it  followyth  that  great  incon- 
venyence  must  fall  to  that  people  a chylde  is  ruler  and 
governour  of.  But  now  we  ought  all  to  rejoyse  that  a 
man  and  not  a chylde  shall  have  lordeshype  over  us, 
a man  that  shall  govern  the  people  by  skylful  doyngs, 
settyne  apart  wylfulnesse  and  all  pleasure  of  himself.” 

And  the  people  answered  “Amen”  with  great  gladness; 
they  clapped  their  hands  for  joy  and  did  homage  to  the 
new  king,  while  the  coronation  was  fixed  for  the  13  th 
of  October,  the  Feast  of  St.  Edward. 

Froissart  has  left  us  a vivid  account  of  that  great 
day,  which  you  shall  have  in  his  words. 

“ On  the  Saturday  before  the  coronation,  the  new 
king  went  from  Westminster  to  the  Tower  attended 
by  great  numbers,  and  those  squires  who  were  to  be 
knighted  watched  their  arms  that  night.  They  amounted 
to  forty-six,  and  each  squire  had  his  chamber  and  his 
bath  in  which  he  bathed.  The  ensuing  day,  the  Duke 
of  Lancaster,  after  mass,  created  them  knights,  and  pre- 
sented them  with  long  green  coats  with  straight  sleeves. 
After  dinner  on  this  Sunday,  the  Duke  left  the  Tower 
on  his  return  to  Westminster ; he  was  bareheaded,  and 
there  were  of  nobility  from  eight  to  nine  hundred  horse 
in  the  procession.  The  Duke  was  dressed  in  a jacket  of 
cloth  of  gold,  mounted  on  a white  courser,  with  a blue 
garter  on  his  left  leg.  The  same  night  the  king  bathed 
himself,  and  on  the  morrow  confessed  himself  and 
heard  three  masses.  The  prelates  and  clergy  who  had 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


IOI 


assembled,  then  came  in  a large  procession  from  West- 
minster Abbey  to  conduct  the  king  thither,  and  returned 
in  the  same  manner,  the  king  and  nobles  following. 
The  dukes,  earls,  and  barons  wore  long  scarlet  robes, 
with  mantles  trimmed  with  ermine  and  large  hoods  of 
the  same.  The  dukes  and  earls  had  three  bars  of 
ermine  on  the  left  arm,  the  barons  but  two.  On  each 
side  of  the  king  were  carried  the  sword  of  mercy  and 
the  sword  of  justice,  and  the  Marshal  of  England  carried 
the  sceptre. 

“ The  procession  entered  the  church  about  nine  o’clock, 
in  the  middle  of  which  was  erected  a scaffold  covered 
with  crimson  cloth,  and  in  the  centre  a royal  throne 
of  cloth  of  gold.  When  the  Duke  entered  the  church, 
he  seated  himself  upon  the  throne,  and  was  thus  in 
royal  state,  except  having  the  crown  on  his  head. 

“The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  proclaimed  how  God 
had  given  them  a man  for  their  lord  and  sovereign,  and 
then  asked  the  people  if  they  were  consenting  to  his 
being  consecrated  and  crowned  king.  They  unanimously 
shouted  out  Ay. 

“ After  this  the  Duke  descended  from  the  throne,  and 
advanced  to  the  altar  to  be  consecrated.  He  was 
anointed  in  six  places,  and  while  this  was  doing  the 
clergy  chanted  a litany  that  is  performed  at  the  hallow- 
ing of  a font. 

“ The  king  was  now  dressed  in  churchman’s  clothes, 
and  they  put  on  him  crimson  shoes.  Then  they  added 
spurs ; the  sword  of  justice  was  drawn,  blest,  and  de- 
livered to  the  king,  who  put  it  into  the  scabbard.  The 


io2  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


crown  of  St.  Edward,  which  is  arched  over  like  a cross, 
was  then  brought  and  blessed,  and  put  on  the  king’s 
head  by  the  Archbishop. 

“ When  mass  was  over,  the  king  left  the  Abbey  and 
returned  to  the  Palace,  and  went  first  to  his  apartment, 
then  returned  to  the  Hall  to  dinner. 

“ At  the  first  table  sat  the  king  ; at  the  second,  five 
great  peers  of  England ; at  the  third,  the  principal 
citizens  of  London ; at  the  fourth,  the  new  created 
knights ; at  the  fifth,  all  knights  and  squires  of  honour. 
And  the  king  was  served  by  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who 
carried  the  sword  of  mercy. 

“ When  dinner  was  half  over,  a knight  of  the  name  of 
Dymock  entered  the  Hall  completely  armed,  mounted  on 
a handsome  steed.  The  knight  was  armed  for  wager  of 
battle,  and  was  preceded  by  another  knight  bearing  his 
lance ; he  himself  had  his  drawn  sword  in  one  hand 
and  a naked  dagger  at  his  side.  The  knight  presented 
the  king  with  a written  paper,  the  contents  of  which 
were,  that  if  any  knight  or  gentleman  would  dare  main- 
tain that  King  Henry  was  not  the  lawful  sovereign,  he 
was  ready  to  offer  him  combat  in  the  presence  of  the 
king,  when  and  where  he  would. 

“ After  King  Henry  had  dined  and  partaken  of  wines 
and  spices,  he  retired  to  his  private  apartments,  and  all 
the  company  went.  Thus  passed  the  Coronation  Day  of 
King  Henry,  who  remained  that  and  the  ensuing  day  at 
the  Palace  of  Westminster.” 

But  though  Henry  was  thus  firmly  set  on  the  throne 
by  the  will  of  Parliament,  he  knew  full  well  that  he  was 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


103 


not  the  lawful  heir  while  the  Earl  of  March,  the  de- 
scendant of  John  of  Gaunt’s  elder  brother,  was  alive, 
and  this  fact  put  him  very  much  at  the  mercy  of  his 
Parliament  throughout  his  reign.  He  was  there  by  the 
will  of  Parliament,  and  therefore,  according  to  their  will 
he  must  act.  His  was  a troubled,  anxious  rule ; for 
rebellions  broke  out  in  many  different  parts  of  the 
country,  and  Henry  never  felt  really  secure. 

With  Westminster  he  had  little  to  do,  save  at  the 
beginning  and  end  of  his  reign,  and  he  has  left  no 
memorial  of  himself  in  the  building.  Yet  he  is  the  one 
king  who  died  within  the  Abbey  walls. 

To  ease  his  conscience,  he  had  resolved  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  the  Lord  at  Jerusalem, 
and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  suffering  from 
a grave  disease. 

“ Galleys  of  warre  ” were  made  ready  for  the  expedi- 
tion, and  the  king  came  to  Westminster,  both  to  meet 
his  Parliament  and  to  pray  in  the  shrine  of  Edward  for 
the  blessing  and  protection  of  that  saint,  though  he 
firmly  believed  an  old  prophecy  that  he  should  die  in 
Jerusalem  would  be  now  fulfilled. 

While  kneeling  in  the  shrine,  he  became  so  ill  that 
those  about  him  thought  he  would  die  in  that  place. 
But  with  difficulty  they  moved  him  to  the  fine  chamber 
in  the  Abbot’s  house,  carrying  him  on  a litter  through 
the  cloisters,  and  “ there  they  laid  him  before  the 
fire  on  a pallet,  he  being  in  great  agony  for  a certain 
time.” 

At  last,  when  he  came  to  himself,  he  asked  where  he 


io4  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


was,  and  when  this  had  been  told  him,  he  inquired  if 
the  chamber  had  any  special  name. 

He  was  told  its  name  was  Jerusalem. 

“ Then  sayd  the  Kynge : Laud  be  to  the  Father  of 
Heaven,  for  no  we  I knowe  I shall  dye  in  this  chamber, 
accordynge  to  ye  propheseye  of  me  aforesayde,  that  I 
should  dye  in  Jerusalem.” 

So,  in  that  dark  tapestried  room,  the  king,  lying  there 
in  his  royal  robes,  just  as  he  had  come  from  doing  honour 
to  St.  Edward,  made  himself  ready  to  die.  His  son, 
Prince  Harry,  was  with  him,  though  between  the  two 
there  had  been  many  a misunderstanding  and  quarrel 
during  the  last  few  years ; and  Shakespeare,  taking  his 
facts  from  the  French  chronicler,  tells  how  Henry  lay 
there  unconscious,  his  crown  on  a pillow  at  his  side, 
and  at  last  seemed  to  breathe  no  more.  Whereupon  the 
attendants,  believing  him  to  be  dead,  covered  over  his 
face,  and  Prince  Harry  first  held  the  crown  in  his  hands, 
then  set  it  on  his  own  head. 

This  very  act  seemed  to  call  the  dying  king  back  to 
life,  for  he  groaned,  came  to  himself,  and  missed  the 
crown. 

“ What  right  have  you  to  it,  my  son  ? ” he  asked 
reproachfully. 

The  Prince  made  answer : “ My  lord,  as  you  have 
held  it  by  the  right  of  your  sword,  it  is  my  intent  to 
hold  and  defend  the  same  during  my  life.” 

To  which  replied  the  king : “ I leave  all  things  to 
God,  and  pray  that  He  will  have  mercy  upon  me.” 

And  thus  saying  he  died. 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


105 


But  the  English  chroniclers  give  another  picture  of 
the  Prince,  and  describe  him  sobered  and  awestruck  in 
the  presence  of  Death,  kneeling  at  his  father’s  side  as 
the  priest  administered  the  Holy  Sacrament,  tenderly  re- 
calling his  wandering  mind  and  saying — 

“My  lord,  he  has  just  consecrated  the  Body  of  the 
Lord  Christ : I entreat  you  to  worship  Him,  by  whom 
kings  reign  and  princes  rule.” 

Then  the  king  raised  himself  up  to  receive  the  cup, 
blessed  his  son,  kissed  him,  and  died. 

Prince  Harry  wept  distractedly,  full  of  remorse  as  he 
thought  of  all  the  follies  and  mistakes  of  his  past  life, 
which  had  so  added  to  the  sorrows  of  the  dead  king. 
But  all  that  was  good  and  great  in  him  came  to  the  front 
now.  Alone,  in  a little  chapel  inside  the  Abbey,  he 
passed  the  rest  of  that  day,  kneeling  in  utter  humility 
before  the  King  of  kings,  praying  for  pardon,  for  peace,  and 
for  strength.  “ Then,  when  the  shades  of  night  had  fallen 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  the  tearful  Prince  in  the 
darkness  went  to  the  Anchorite  of  Westminster  (whose 
stone  cell  lay  on  the  south  side  of  the  infirmary  cloister), 
and  unfolding  to  this  perfect  man  the  secrets  of  his  life, 
being  washed  in  penitence,  he  received  absolution,  and 
putting  off  the  cloak  of  iniquity,  he  returned  garbed  in 
the  mantle  of  virtue.”  Nor  was  this  sudden  change  the 
impulse  of  a moment,  for  “ Henry,  after  he  was  admitted 
to  the  rule  of  the  land,  showed  himself  a new  man,  and 
tourned  all  his  wyldness  into  sobernesse,  wyse  sadnesse 
and  constant  virtue.” 

The  king,  at  his  own  wish,  was  buried  at  Canter- 


io6  THE  STORY  OE  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


bury  by  the  side  of  the  Black  Prince ; some  chroniclers 
say,  because  he  trembled  at  the  thought  of  lying  near 
Richard’s  tomb  in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel ; and  nothing 
disturbed  the  peace  of  the  Abbey  till  the  following 
spring,  when  on  Passion  Sunday,  “a  daye  of  exceedinge 
rayne  and  snow,”  Henry  Y.  was  crowned. 

His  first  act  as  king  was  to  give  King  Richard  an 
honourable  burial  in  the  tomb  he  had  chosen,  to 
order  that  tapers  should  burn  around  his  grave  “ as  long 
as  the  world  endureth,”  and  that  dirges  and  masses 
should  be  said  for  his  soul.  Then  he  concerned  himself 
with  the  building  which  had  stood  still  throughout  his 
father’s  reign,  and  he  made  as  his  chief  architect  the 
wealthy  and  generous  Whittington,  now  Lord  Mayor  of 
London — possibly  the  hero  of  the  old  story — with  a 
monk  of  Westminster  named  Haweden.  To  those  two 
was  entrusted  the  work  of  completing  the  nave  and  all 
the  western  part  of  the  Abbey. 

Henry  was  brave  and  adventurous,  the  nobles  were 
longing  for  war,  and  France,  at  that  moment  divided 
against  itself,  almost  invited  attack.  The  old  pretext 
did  well  enough ; Henry  laid  claim  to  the  throne  of 
France  and  invaded  the  land,  scorning  all  idea  of  com- 
promise. Disease  attacked  his  army,  so  that  when  he 
came  face  to  face  with  his  foe  he  had  but  15,000 
men  to  their  50,000.  But  his  courage  rose  to  the 
crisis,  and  when  one  of  his  knights  sighed  for  the 
thousands  of  brave  warriors  in  England,  he  said 
warmly — 

“ I would  not  have  a single  man  more.  If  God 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY  107 

give  us  the  victory,  it  will  be  plain  we  owe  it  to  His 
grace.” 

And  the  battle  there  fought  and  won  was  the  great 
battle  of  Agincourt,  the  victory  once  again  of  the  English 
archers.  Henry  had  always  been  loved  by  the  nation, 
now  he  became  their  hero  and  their  darling. 

“ Oh,  when  shall  Englishmen 
W ith  such  acts  fill  a pen, 

Or  England  breed  again 
Such  a King  Harry  ? ” 

The  news  of  the  triumph  was  quickly  sent  to  London 
by  a special  messenger,  and  the  Mayor,  with  the  com- 
monalty and  an  immense  number  of  citizens,  set  out 
on  foot  to  make  their  pilgrimage  to  St.  Edward’s  shrine, 
there  to  offer  devout  thanksgiving  for  the  joyful  news. 

And  to  this  procession  there  joined  themselves  very 
many  lords  and  peers  of  the  realm,  with  the  substantial 
men,  both  spiritual  and  temporal,  for  all  knew  that 
thanksgiving  was  due  unto  God,  and  to  Edward,  the 
glorious  Confessor.  Therefore  went  they  like  pilgrims 
on  foot  to  Westminster,  as  aforesaid,  passing  through 
the  newly  built  nave. 

Later  on,  when  Henry  made  his  triumphant  entry 
into  London  as  the  victor  of  Agincourt,  “ the  gates  and 
streets  of  the  cities  were  garnished  and  apparelled  with 
precious  cloths  of  arras,  containing  the  victories  and 
triumphs  of  the  king  of  England,  which  was  done  to 
the  intent  that  the  king  might  understand  what  remem- 
brance his  people  would  leave  to  their  posterity  of  these, 
his  great  victories  and  triumphs.” 


io8  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


But  the  king  would  not  have  any  ditties  to  be  sung 
of  his  victory,  for  he  said  the  glory  belonged  to  God,  and 
the  hymn  of  praise  he  commanded  was  a joyful  Te 
Denim,  which  rang  through  the  vaulted  arches  of  the 
Abbey,  led  by  the  monks,  swelled  by  countless  voices 
of  brave  Englishmen.  Nor  would  Hemy  allow  his 
battered  helmet  of  gold  and  his  other  armour,  “ that  in 
cruel  battaille  was  so  sore  broken  with  the  great  strokes 
he  hadde  received,”  to  be  carried  before  him  or  shown 
to  his  people.  With  a fine  modesty,  he  sought  in  no 
way  to  glorify  himself.  The  memory  of  his  early  man- 
hood, with  its  dark  side,  was  ever  before  his  eyes ; the 
conflict  with  the  enemy  within  was  ever  waging,  and 
the  knowledge  of  his  own  weakness  swept  over  him  even 
in  the  hour  of  his  greatest  triumph,  so  that  he  could  not 
but  be  humble  as  a little  child. 

Peace  was  at  last  made  with  France,  the  terms  being 
that  Henry  should  marry  the  French  king’s  daughter, 
Katherine,  who  possessed  “ a white  oval  face,  dark 
flashing  eyes,  and  most  engaging  manners,”  and  that  he 
should  succeed  to  the  throne  of  France  on  the  death  of 
his  father-in-law.  In  the  February  of  1421  he  brought 
his  pretty  bride  to  England,  where  the  people  received 
her  “ as  if  she  had  been  an  angel  of  God,”  and  on  the 
24th  of  that  month  she  was  crowned  by  the  Archbishop. 

In  the  words  of  Robert  Fabyan,  an  alderman  of 
London,  but  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of  learning,  “ I will 
proceed  to  show  you  some  part  of  the  great  honour  that 
was  exercised  and  used  upon  that  day.” 

After  the  service  in  the  church  was  ended,  Queen 


HENRY  V.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


109 


Katherine  was  led  into  the  great  hall  of  Westminster, 
and  there  sat  at  dinner  at  Henry’s  side,  while  close  to 
her  sat  the  captive  Prince  James  of  Scotland,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  and  many  great  nobles.  The 
Countess  of  Kent  sat  under  the  table  at  the  right  side 
of  the  queen,  and  the  Countess  Marshal  on  the  left  side, 
holding  her  napkin,  while  the  Earl  of  Worcester  rode 
about  the  hall  on  a great  courser  to  keep  room  and 
order.  Being  Lent,  no  meat  was  allowed,  excepting 
brawn  served  with  mustard,  but  of  fish  there  was  a great 
choice ; “ pyke  in  herbage  lamprey  powderyd,  codlyng, 
crabbys,  solys,  fresshe  samon,  dryed  smelt,  halybut, 
rochet,  porpies  rostyd,  prawys,  clys  roast,  and  a white 
fisshe  florysshed  with  hawthorne  leaves  and  redde 
lawrys.”  Wonderful  ornaments  called  “ subtelties  ” 
were  on  the  table,  being  images  intended  to  symbolise 
the  happy  event,  and  fastened  on  to  these  were  labels 
with  such  verses  as — 

“ To  this  sign  the  king 
Great  joy  will  bring, 

And  all  his  people 
The  queen  will  content.” 

Or— 

“ It  is  written 
And  can  be  seen, 

In  marriage  pure 
No  strifes  endure.” 

Katherine’s  pity  was  roused  by  the  clever  and  charm- 
ing young  Scottish  prince  who  had  been  so  long  a 
prisoner,  and  who  was  now  deeply  in  love  with  Lady 


Iio  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Joanna  Beanfort,  a lady  he  had  seen  in  the  gardens  of 
Windsor  Castle,  and  at  this  banquet  she  pleaded  for  him 
with  her  husband,  with  the  result  that  he  was  eventually 
set  free,  and  allowed  to  marry  the  lady  of  his  love. 

In  spite  of  the  peace  which  had  been  made,  the 
French  people  were  not  inclined  to  submit  to  their  con- 
querors, and  within  a few  months  of  Katherine’s  corona- 
tion war  broke  out  again,  which  sent  Henry  off  in  haste 
to  France.  He  was  still  victorious,  and  when  besieging 
Meaux  the  news  was  brought  that  Katherine  had  given 
him  a son.  At  the  same  time  came  a loving  letter  from 
the  queen  herself,  begging  that  she  might  join  him  in 
France  so  soon  as  her  health  would  permit.  The  per- 
mission was  readily  granted,  and  she  came,  but  not  too 
soon ; for  Henry,  who  had  bravely  fought  illness  as  he 
fought  all  other  enemies,  was  conquered  at  last,  and 
died  at  Vincennes,  he,  “ mighty  victor,  mighty  lord,  being 
carried  there  helpless  on  a litter.” 

In  the  third  year  of  his  reign  Henry  had  made  his 
will,  in  which  he  had  set  down  careful  instructions  as 
to  his  own  burying,  which  was  to  be  at  Westminster, 
among  the  kings  ; and  as  by  now  there  was  but  little 
room  left  in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel,  he  directed  that  at 
its  eastern  end,  where  the  relics  were  kept,  a high  place 
should  be  made,  ascended  on  each  side  by  steps,  and 
that  there  should  be  raised  an  altar,  while  underneath 
it  his  body  should  be  laid.  To  this  altar  he  be- 
queathed plate,  vestments,  and  a sum  of  money  for  the 
Abbey,  in  token  of  which  three  monks  of  the  Abbey 
were  daily  to  say  three  masses  there  for  his  soul. 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


1 1 1 


He  had  been  a great  benefactor  to  the  Abbey,  for 
besides  having  completed  the  nave,  he  had  paid  to  it  a 
thousand  marks  yearly,  restored  to  it  a ring  valued  at  a 
thousand  marks,  and  given  such  valuable  presents  as  a 
Psalter  and  other  fine  books  ; so  the  monks  were  anxious 
to  do  him  all  honour,  while  the  people  of  London  were 
determined  to  worthily  show  their  sorrow  and  their 
love. 

The  great  funeral  procession  set  out  from  France,  and 
by  slow  stages  reached  London.  The  coffin  had  been  set 
on  an  open  chariot,  and  behind  it  was  carved  an  image 
of  the  king  made  of  leather  and  painted  to  look  lifelike, 
clothed  in  purple  with  ermine,  holding  a sceptre,  crowned 
and  sandalled.  The  queen  and  King  James  of  Scotland 
followed  as  chief  mourners ; a thousand  men  in  white 
bore  torches ; throughout  the  day  chants,  hymns,  and 
sacred  offices  were  sung  by  the  priests,  and  wherever  his 
body  rested  for  awhile  in  a church,  masses  were  said. 

From  Paris  to  Calais,  Calais  to  Dover,  Dover  to 
Canterbury,  and  Canterbury  to  London,  this  solemn 
journey  of  many  weeks  was  made,  while  once  on  English 
soil  the  procession  was  greatly  lengthened.  The  streets 
of  London  were  draped  in  black ; each  householder  stood 
at  his  door  with  a lighted  torch ; before  the  royal  coffin 
rode  the  king’s  favourite  knight  and  standard-bearer,  Sir 
Louis  Robsart,  and  many  lords  bore  the  banners  of  saints. 
Men  at  arms,  in  deep  black  and  on  black  horses,  formed 
the  guard  of  honour ; behind  came  his  three  chargers, 
then  followed  the  royal  mourners,  and  once  more  came 
a touch  of  relief  from  the  rich  vestments  of  the  bishops 


1 12  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and  abbots,  and  the  white  robes  of  the  priests  and 

singers. 

“ So  with  great  solemnity  and  honour  was  that  ex- 
cellent prince  brought  unto  the  monastery  of  West- 
minster, and  there  at  the  feet  of  St.  Edward  reverently 
interred,  on  whose  soul,  sweet  Jesus,  be  merciful.” 

The  little  king  of  England  was  not  yet  a year  old, 
but  directly  after  the  funeral  Parliament  met,  and  Queen 
Katherine  rode  through  the  city  of  London  in  a chariot 
drawn  by  white  horses,  surrounded  by  the  nobles  of  the 
land.  She  held  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  in  the  words 
of  one  who  watched,  “ Those  pretty  hands  which  could 
not  yet  feed  himself,  were  made  capable  of  wielding  a 
sceptre,  and  he  who  beholden  to  his  nurses  for  food,  did 
distribute  law  and  justice  to  the  nation.”  By  his  Chan- 
cellor the  infant  king  saluted,  and  to  his  people  spoke 
his  mind,  by  means  of  another  tongue.  Alice  Boteler 
and  Joan  Ashley  were  appointed  by  this  year-old  child 
to  be  his  governess  and  nurse,  “ from  time  to  time 
reasonably  to  chastise  us  as  the  case  may  require,  to 
teach  us  courtesy  and  good  manners,  and  many  things 
convenient  for  our  royal  persons  to  learn.” 

The  building  of  the  chantry  over  the  grave  of  Henry 
V.  was  not  long  delayed,  and  all  his  instructions  were 
carefully  carried  out.  You  will  see  it  is  a little  chapel 
of  itself  at  the  east  end  of  the  Confessor’s  Chapel,  stand- 
ing so  high,  that  at  first  the  people  from  the  farther  end 
of  the  Abbey  could  see  the  priests  celebrating  mass  at 
its  altar. 

But  before  long  the  stone  screen  put  up  about  this 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolus  & Co. 


Henry  V.'s  Tomb 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


1 13 

time,  to  the  further  honour  of  St.  Edward,  cut  it  off 
from  view.  How  exquisite  must  that  screen  have 
been,  with  its  lace  work  tracery,  its  niches  full  of 
saints,  its  brilliancy  of  gold,  of  crimson,  and  of  blue ! 
You  must  look  carefully  at  the  carvings,  which  tell  the 
story  of  Edward’s  life,  fact  and  legend  blended  together. 
Here  I will  tell  you  shortly  what  each  scene  is  meant 
to  represent,  beginning  from  your  left  as  you  face  the 
screen. 

The  first  two  describe  the  birth  of  Edward ; the  third, 
his  coronation ; the  fourth,  his  dream  of  the  devil 
dancing  for  joy  over  the  piles  of  money  collected  by 
the  much-hated  tax  called  Danegeld,  a dream  which  so 
alarmed  the  king  that  he  did  away  with  the  tax.  The 
fifth  shows  how  Edward  had  mercy  on  a thief  who  tried 
to  steal  his  gold,  for  the  king  said,  “ Let  him  keep  it ; 
he  hath  more  need  of  it  than  us.”  The  sixth  tells  how 
Christ  appeared  to  the  king  at  the  Holy  Sacrament ; the 
seventh  and  eighth  describe  the  crowning  of  the  king  of 
Denmark  and  a quarrel  between  Harold  and  Tostig. 
The  ninth  and  tenth  go  back  to  legend,  the  vision  of 
the  Seven  Sleepers  and  the  appearance  of  St.  John  as 
a pilgrim ; while  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  describe  St. 
John  giving  back  the  ring  to  the  pilgrim,  and  the 
pilgrim’s  bearing  it  to  King  Edward.  The  eleventh 
shows  the  king  washing  his  hands  on  the  right,  and  on 
the  left  are  three  blind  men,  waiting  for  their  sight  to  be 
restored  to  them  when  they  wash  their  eyes  in  the  water 
Edward  had  used ; and  the  two  last  tell  of  the  king’s 
death  and  the  dedication  of  the  Abbey. 


H 


1 14  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

The  chantry  of  King  Henry  was  less  ornate  than  this 
screen,  but  it  was  nevertheless  very  beautiful.  You 
must  look  at  the  pattern  of  the  open  work  on  the  iron 
grating  which  is  round  the  tomb  gates,  and  pick  out 
the  fleur-de-lis,  the  emblem  of  France,  claimed  by 
Henry  as  his  inheritance.  The  figure  of  the  king  was 
the  special  gift  of  his  widow,  and  was  carved  of  the  best 
English  oak,  with  a head  of  silver,  and  its  value  made 
it  too  great  a temptation  to  some  “ covetous  pilferers 
about  the  latter  end  of  Henry  VIII.,  who  broke  it  off 
and  conveyed  it  clean  awaie.” 

Over  the  chantry  you  will  see  a helmet,  shield,  and 
saddle ; and  though  the  helmet  is  certainly  not  the  one 
which  Henry  kept  hidden  from  all  people  at  the  Agin- 
court  festival,  it  is  certainly  as  old  as  the  funeral  day, 
and  was  probably  made  for  that  occasion. 

In  the  year  1878,  Katherine  of  Valois,  who  had 
first  been  buried  in  Henry  III.’s  chapel,  then  left  for 
more  than  two  hundred  years  in  a rudely  made  coffin, 
open  to  the  public  gaze,  by  her  husband’s  tomb,  and 
afterwards  laid  in  a side  chapel,  was  at  last  buried  under 
the  altar  slab  in  the  Chantry  Chapel  of  Henry  V.,  and 
here  within  the  calm  shelter  of  Edward’s  shrine  were 
carried  the  remains  of  two  other  queens,  Eadgytha,  the 
wife  of  Harold,  and  good  Queen  Maude,  the  wife  of 
Henry  I.  Here,  too,  rest  two  tiny  royal  children, 
Margaret  of  York,  the  baby  daughter  of  Edward  IV., 
and  her  niece,  Elizabeth  Tudor,  the  three-year-old  child 
of  Henry  VII.  and  Elizabeth.  Their  little  marble 
tombs  are  plain  and  bear  now  no  name.  One  other 


HENRY  Y.  AND  HIS  CHANTRY 


ii5 

royal  prince  is  buried  here,  Thomas  of  Woodstock,  the 
uncle  and  for  some  time  the  adviser  of  Richard  II.,  who 
certainly  suffered  heavily  for  any  advice  he  gave,  good 
or  otherwise,  for  he  was  smothered  to  death  at  Calais 
with  Richard’s  consent.  And  one  man  not  of  royal 
birth  lies  here — John  of  Waltham,  Bishop  of  Salisbury, 
for  whom  this  same  Richard  II.  had  so  great  a liking, 
that,  defying  every  one,  he  ordered  him  to  be  laid  among 
kings,  close  to  the  tomb  of  the  Confessor. 

I wonder  if  by  now  you  know  thoroughly  that 
chapel  which  holds  our  earliest  and  some  of  our  greatest 
kings  and  queens  ? Does  that  stately  tomb  in  the 
centre  call  to  your  mind  Edward,  the  dreamer  and  the 
builder,  the  dramatic  ending  of  his  life,  the  splendid 
ceremony  of  his  burial  within  these  walls,  when  he  was 
honoured  not  alone  as  king  of  England  or  founder  of 
the  Abbey,  but  as  a saint  of  the  Church  ? Does  the 
tomb  of  Henry  III.,  with  its  remains  of  soft  coloured 
marble  and  gilt  mosaics,  tell  you  of  Westminster’s 
second  great  builder,  a lover  of  beauty  and  religious 
observances,  but  withal  weak  and  extravagant,  and  in- 
capable of  rising  to  his  great  responsibilities  ? Does 
the  rugged,  undecorated  monument  of  Edward  I.  show 
you  the  man,  strong,  stern,  and  steadfast,  or  the  tomb 
of  his  beloved  Eleanor  speak  to  you  of  his  wonderful 
love  for  her  and  of  her  sweet  goodness  ? And  when 
you  look  at  the  resting-place  of  Edward  III.  and 
Philippa,  does  it  not  call  up  to  your  mind  the  days  of 
chivalry  and  the  feats  of  English  soldiers,  the  victories 
of  Poitiers  and  Crecy,  the  siege  of  Calais  and  the  com- 


ii  6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


passionate  pleading  of  the  kindly  queen  ? You  stand 
by  the  tomb  of  Richard  and  Anne,  united  at  last,  and 
do  not  you  think,  “ Oh,  the  pity  of  it,”  when  you  re- 
member how  Richard  might  have  been  strong  and 
brave,  had  only  he  kept  true  to  his  best  self  ? And 
then,  do  you  not  turn  with  a thrill  of  pride  to  the 
lofty  chantry  which  encircles  the  grave  of  Henry  V., 
the  best  loved  king  England  ever  had,  the  king  who 
set  a glow  of  patriotism  alight  in  his  realm,  who  rose 
above  his  failings  and  his  faults,  and  gave  to  his  people 
the  fine  example  of  a man  who  was  victor  over  himself 
as  well  as  victor  over  his  foreign  foes  ? Worthily  I 
think  does  Henry’s  chantry  crown  the  Confessor’s  shrine. 

If  some  of  these  thoughts  have  come  to  you,  this 
chapel  will  have  taught  you  more  history  than  any 
number  of  books  or  any  number  of  dates.  Because 
history  only  grows  real  to  all  of  us,  when  the  men  and 
women  about  whom  we  read  and  learn  cease  to  be  mere 
figures  and  become  our  familiar  acquaintances,  till  we 
fit  them  in  as  it  were  to  their  proper  places  in  the  story 
of  England — places  which  are  not  always  bounded  by 
the  years  of  a reign,  which  often  cannot  be  bounded 
even  by  centuries. 


QQ.  ICATBERINE 


TOMBS  IE  TEE  CEAPEL  OF  THE  EING3. 


v 


CHAPTEK  IX 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES  AND  THE  THIRD 
ROYAL  BUILDER 

Little  Henry  VI.  was  not  crowned  till  he  was  nine 
years  old,  and  one  old  writer  says  that  “ so  small  was 
he,  he  could  not  wear  the  crown,  and  a bracelet  of  his 
mother’s  was  placed  on  his  head.”  He  was  a dreamy, 
gentle  boy,  and,  far  from  being  excited  or  happy  on  his 
coronation  day,  we  hear  how  “ very  sadly  and  gravely 
he  beheld  all  the  people  round  about  him,  at  the  sight 
of  which  he  showed  great  humility.”  His  mother, 
Katherine,  had  married  a Welshman  named  Owen 
Tudor,  much  to  the  anger  of  those  about  the  court  and 
the  nobles,  who  considered  that  by  so  doing  she  had 
demeaned  herself,  and  after  this  she  was  allowed  to  see 
very  little  of  her  son,  who  was  therefore  left  entirely 
to  his  uncles,  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester.  Like  Edward  the  Confessor,  Henry  was  fit 
for  a cloister  but  not  for  a crown,  and  he  was  called  to 
reign  in  troublous  times,  when  strength  of  will  and 
purpose  were  more  needed  in  a king  than  saintliness  or 
simplicity  of  life.  His  uncles,  who  realised  his  weak- 
ness, arranged  that  he  should  marry  Margaret  of  Anjou, 
a woman  who  was  brave,  ambitious,  and  masterful ; but 

Ix7 


1 1 8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


the  fact  that  she  soon  got  Henry  completely  under  her 
control  only  brought  about  in  the  end  his  destruction 
and  hers.  In  France  the  English  lost  all  that  they  had 
won,  for  a deliverer  of  France  had  arisen  in  the  girl 
Joan  of  Arc,  who  gave  fresh  courage  and  hope  to  her 
fellow-countrymen  and  led  them  on  to  victory  as  though 
she  had  been  a saint  sent  by  God.  Then  back  to  Eng- 
land came  those  many  thousands  of  soldiers  who  had 
been  fighting  abroad  all  these  years,  and  they  were  not 
inclined  to  settle  down  to  a peaceful  life ; they  wanted 
adventure,  excitement,  and  plunder,  and  they  were 
ready  to  flock  round  any  leader  who  could  promise 
them  the  chance  of  a fight.  You  will  remember  how, 
when  you  looked  at  Edward  III.’s  tomb,  with  the 
figures  of  his  sons  kneeling  round,  I told  you  that 
the  descendants  of  those  sons  brought  civil  war  upon 
England ; and  it  was  in  the  reign  of  Henry  YI.  that 
this  terrible  war  broke  out.  Henry,  as  you  know,  was 
descended  from  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and 
his  grandfather,  Henry  IV.,  had  gained  the  throne  by 
will  of  Parliament  and  by  right  of  conquest,  but  not  by 
right  of  inheritance.  Now  there  was  living  Richard, 
Duke  of  York,  who  was  descended  from  the  Duke  of 
Clarence,  the  elder  brother  of  John  of  Gaunt,  and  when, 
owing  to  Henry’s  weakness  and  the  jealousies  of  the 
great  nobles,  two  parties  gradually  began  to  form 
themselves,  these  parties  naturally  became  divided 
into  those  who  supported  the  king,  that  is  to  say, 
the  House  of  Lancaster,  and  those  who  supported  the 
House  of  York.  At  first  there  was  no  thought  of  civil 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES  n9 

war ; these  two  parties  merely  opposed  each  other  and 
schemed  one  against  the  other ; but  before  long  feeling 
ran  so  high  that  open  warfare  became  inevitable,  and 
each  side  took  as  its  badge  a rose. 

So  began  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and  there  followed 
those  terrible  battles  of  Northampton,  Wakefield,  St. 
Albans,  Towton,  Barnet,  and  Tewkesbury,  in  which 
thousands  of  Englishmen  were  slain  (20,000  at  Towton 
alone),  the  victory  resting  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other,  though  finally  with  the  Yorkists.  The 
Duke  of  York  had  been  killed  early  in  the  campaign, 
but  his  place  had  been  filled  by  his  young  son,  Edward, 
and  at  last,  after  the  battle  of  Tewkesbury,  King 
Henry  and  Queen  Margaret  were  taken  prisoners,  their 
son  Edward  having  been  killed  in  battle  or  murdered 
afterwards.  Both  were  taken  to  the  Tower,  and  one 
night,  between  eleven  and  twelve.  King  Henry  was  put 
to  death,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  and  divers  of  his  men 
being  in  the  Tower  that  night.  So  Edward  of  York 
ascended  the  throne,  the  fourth  king  of  that  name,  and 
the  first  stage  of  the  War  of  the  Roses  was  ended. 

Henry  was  not  buried  at  Westminster ; in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  his  body  was  carried  from  the  Tower, 
put  on  to  a lighted  barge,  and,  “ without  singing  or 
saying,”  conveyed  up  the  dark  waters  of  the  Thames 
to  his  silent  interment  at  Chertsey  Abbey.  And  yet 
this  gentle,  humble  king  had  loved  the  Abbey  well, 
and  had  greatly  longed  to  lie  near  to  St.  Edward,  by 
his  father  and  his  ancestors,  having  chosen  the  spot 
where  the  relics  had  been  kept,  as  a “ good  place.” 


i20  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Edward  IV.  reigned  for  twelve  years,  but  he  did  not 
reign  in  peace ; and  once  his  wife  Elizabeth  was  in  such 
distress  and  danger  that,  with  her  three  little  girls, 
Elizabeth,  Mary,  and  Cicely,  and  one  faithful  attendant, 
Lady  Scrope,  she  fled  to  Westminster  for  sanctuary,  and 
threw  herself  on  the  mercy  of  Abbot  Mylling.  In  this 
gloomy  place  of  refuge  her  son  was  born,  she  being 
tended  by  a certain  Mother  Cobb,  who  also  lived  in 
sanctuary,  while  the  Abbot  sent  her  some  few  things 
for  her  comfort,  and  a kind  butcher  named  Gould  pro- 
vided “half  a beef  and  two  muttons  every  week.” 

It  was  a strange  birthplace  for  an  English  prince ; 
but  his  christening,  which  took  place  in  the  Abbey,  was 
not  without  honour,  though  the  ceremony  was  carried 
out  as  though  he  were  a poor  man’s  son.  He  was 
given  the  honoured  name  of  Edward,  the  Abbot  was 
his  godfather,  and  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  with  Lady 
Scrope  stood  as  his  godmothers.  When  peace  was 
restored,  Edward  IV.  at  once  came  to  Westminster  to 
comfort  his  queen,  and  he  did  not  forget  to  reward 
those  who  had  helped  Elizabeth  in  the  hour  of  her 
distress.  To  Nurse  Cobb  he  gave  £12  a year;  from 
the  butcher  he  ordered  a royal  shipful  of  hides  and 
tallow ; while  the  Abbot,  for  “ his  great  civility,”  was 
made  a Privy  Councillor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Hereford. 

But  though  Elizabeth  left  the  Sanctuary,  she  was 
once  more  to  return  to  its  kindly  shelter.  She  had 
always  a mistrust  of  her  husband’s  favourite  brother, 
the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  and  when  King  Edward  died 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


I 2 1 


in  1473,  she  at  once  went  back  to  Westminster  with 
her  daughters  and  her  second  son,  the  Duke  of  York. 
Her  eldest  hoy,  Edward,  was  already  in  his  uncle’s  power 
and  in  the  Tower,  although  the  Duke  of  Gloucester 
had  made  him  enter  London  in  state,  he  riding  bare- 
headed before  him,  and  saying  to  the  people  loudly, 
“ Behold  your  prince  and  sovereign.”  But  the  queen 
was  not  to  be  deceived  by  this.  “ Woe  worth  him,” 
she  said  bitterly ; “ he  goeth  about  to  destroy  me  and 
my  blood.” 

This  time  Elizabeth  and  her  children  were  given 
room  in  the  Abbot’s  palace,  probably  in  the  dining- 
hall,  and  there  the  Archbishop  of  York  came  to  her 
to  deliver  up,  for  the  use  of  her  son,  the  Great  Seal, 
entrusted  to  him  by  Edward  IV.  He  found  her  sitting 
on  the  floor,  “ alone  on  the  rushes,  desolate  and  dis- 
mayed, and  about  her  was  much  rumble,  haste,  and 
business  with  conveyance  of  her  household  stuff  into 
sanctuary.  Every  man  was  busy  to  carry,  bear,  and 
convey  these  stuffs,  chests,  and  fardels,  and  no  man 
was  unoccupied.”  In  the  distance  could  be  heard  the 
noise  of  the  "workmen  already  beginning  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  coronation  of  King  Edward,  which  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  was  apparently  pushing  forward 
with  all  haste.  But  as  the  Archbishop  looked  out  of 
his  window  on  to  the  Thames,  he  saw  the  river  covered 
with  boats  full  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester’s  servants, 
keeping  a watch  over  the  queen’s  hiding-place. 

Richard  of  Gloucester’s  next  move  was  to  get  pos- 
session of  the  little  Duke  of  York,  and  as  he  was 


122  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


now  appointed  Protector,  having  altogether  deceived  the 
Council  as  to  his  real  intent,  this  was  no  very  difficult 
matter.  And  the  poor  queen  had  only  a mother’s 
love  and  a mother’s  fears  to  set  against  these  mighty 
men  and  the  fair  sounding  argument  “ that  the  little 
king  was  melancholy  and  desired  his  brother  for  a 
playmate.” 

“ I deliver  him  into  your  keeping,  my  lord,”  she 
said  to  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  her  face  white, 
her  voice  trembling,  “ of  whom  I shall  ask  him  again 
before  God  and  the  world.  And  I pray  you,  for  the 
trust  which  his  father  reposed  in  you,  that  as  you 
think  I fear  too  much,  so  you  be  cautious  that  you 
fear  not  too  little.” 

Then  she  threw  her  arms  round  the  boy  and  covered 
him  with  kisses. 

“ Farewell,  mine  own  sweet  son,”  she  sobbed ; “ God 
send  you  good  keeping.  And  God  knoweth  when  we 
shall  kiss  together  again.” 

Her  worst]  fears  were  realised.  She  never  saw  her 
boys  again,  never  knew  how  they  were  murdered  in  the 
Tower,  or  even  where  they  were  buried.  And  from  her 
dwelling-place  within  the  Sanctuary  precincts  she  could 
see  and  hear  all  the  preparations  that  were  being  made 
for  the  coronation  of  Richard  III.,  while  she  “ sobbed 
and  wept  and  pulled  her  fair  hair,  as  she  called  by  name 
her  two  sweet  babes,  and  cried  to  God  to  comfort  her.” 

For  nearly  a year  she  remained  where  she  was,  then 
Richard,  having  taken  an  oath  before  the  Lord  Mayor 
and  the  Council  to  protect  her  and  her  daughters,  she 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


123 


moved  out  of  Sanctuary  into  some  humble  lodgings 
near  Westminster,  where  her  one  friend  seems  to  have 
been  a doctor  named  Lewis,  who  was  also  a priest,  and 
apparently  something  of  a politician  too,  for  he  began 
to  plan  with  the  queen  for  the  marriage  of  her  eldest 
daughter,  Elizabeth,  with  Harry  of  Richmond,  who, 
through  his  mother,  Margaret  Beaufort,  was  the  hope 
of  the  Lancastrian  party. 

Richard  III.  was  already  hated  in  England,  and  as  the 
story  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  caused  his  little 
nephews  to  be  murdered  became  generally  known,  the 
hatred  increased  tenfold.  So  the  Lancastrian  party 
thought  the  moment  had  come  for  them  to  make  another 
effort.  Harry  Richmond  landed  at  Milford  Haven  from 
France  with  3000  men,  and  soon  an  eager,  willing  army 
flocked  to  his  standard.  At  Bosworth  field  he  met 
Richard  in  battle. 

“ Let  courage  supply  the  want  of  our  numbers,”  he 
cried.  “ And  as  for  me,  I propose  to  live  with  honour 
hereafter,  or  die  with  honour  here.” 

Evening  found  him  the  victor  of  the  day  ; Richard  lay 
dead  on  the  field,  and  his  crown,  which  he  had  worn  into 
battle,  was  found  hanging  on  a bush.  There  on  the 
scene  of  his  triumph  the  crown  was  set  on  Henry’s  head, 
while  the  soldiers  shouted  joyfully,  “ God  save  King- 
Henry  VII.,”  and  then  burst  iuto  a solemn  Te  Deum. 

In  October  Henry  was  formally  crowned  in  the  Abbey, 
and  in  the  Abbey,  too,  a few  months  later,  he  married 
the  Princess  Elizabeth,  once  the  helpless,  homeless 
Sanctuary  child.  So  were  the  Houses  of  York  and 


124  THE  STORY  OE  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Lancaster  made  one ; so  were  the  red  roses  and  white 
roses  grafted  together,  and  the  people  of  London  cele- 
brated the  happy  event  with  bonfires,  dancing,  songs, 
and  banquet.  Cardinal  Bourchier,  himself  of  Plantagenet 
stock,  performed  the  marriage  ceremony,  and  so,  as 
an  old  writer  prettily  puts  it,  “ his  hand  held  the 
sweet  posie  wherein  the  white  and  red  roses  were  first 
tied  together.” 

Not  till  a year  later  was  Elizabeth  crowned,  and  by 
then  a little  son  had  been  born  to  her,  named  Arthur 
at  his  father’s  wish,  in  memory  of  the  stainless  King 
Arthur,  whom  Henry  VII.  claimed  as  an  ancestor 
through  his  Welsh  grandfather,  Owen  Tudor. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  a great  change  came  over 
the  people  of  England  in  regard  to  their  opinion  of 
Henry  VI.  They  had  begun  by  pitying  him  for  his 
misfortunes ; then  they  had  called  to  mind  his  patience 
and  humility,  his  kind  deeds,  his  love  of  learning,  and 
his  pure  life,  till  at  last  in  their  eyes  he  became  nothing 
short  of  a saint.  Richard  III.  had  caused  his  body  to 
be  removed  from  Chertsey  to  Windsor,  much  to  the 
anger  of  the  priests  at  Chertsey,  who  had  spread  abroad 
stories  of  wonderful  miracles  performed  at  his  tomb, 
which  stories,  being  readily  believed,  had  drawn  many 
pilgrims  to  the  place.  And  pilgrims  never  came  empty- 
handed. 

Henry  VII.  came  under  the  influence  of  this  feeling, 
and  he  resolved  that  honour  should  now  be  done  to  this 
king,  whom  men  had  liked  and  pitied,  but  had  never 
honoured  in  life.  He  had  already  decided  to  build  a 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


125 


new  chapel  to  the  Virgin  Mary  in  the  Abbey,  or  rather 
to  entirely  rebuild  the  Lady  Chapel  of  Henry  III.,  and 
here  he  intended  Henry  VI.  should  be  reburied  under  a 
costly  tomb.  He  went  so  far  as  to  petition  the  Pope  to 
add  King  Henry’s  name  to  the  list  of  saints ; but  the 
Pope  would  only  agree  to  do  so  for  an  extravagant  sum 
of  money,  and  Henry  Tudor  thought  the  money  could  be 
more  profitably  spent  in  other  ways.  So  the  matter  was 
allowed  to  drop,  and  although  the  council  which  had 
been  summoned  to  decide  where  Henry  should  finally  be 
buried — in  Windsor,  Chertsey,  or  Westminster — gave 
their  judgment  in  favour  of  Westminster,  it  is  very 
doubtful  if  his  body  was  ever  moved  to  the  Abbey  at 
all.  Certainly  no  monument  was  raised  to  his  memory. 
However,  the  building  of  the  Lady  Chapel  went  on  apace, 
only  its  purpose  was  changed.  It  was  no  longer  to  be 
the  chantry  of  Henry  VI.,  but  the  chapel  of  Henry  VII., 
the  burying-place  of  the  Tudor  kings  and  queens  of 
his  race. 

Henry  was  a curious  mixture  of  a desire  to  hoard  up 
money,  and  a desire  to  build  what  he  undertook  on  a 
very  lavish  scale.  He  saved  more  money  than  any  other 
English  king,  and  he  certainly  spent  less,  for  he  was 
simple  in  all  his  tastes,  a silent,  gloomy  man.  But  he  has 
left  behind  him  in  Westminster  Abbey  a piece  of  work 
as  beautiful  as  wealth  and  art  could  make  it,  a building 
“ stately  and  surprising,  which  brought  this  church  to 
her  highest  pitch  of  glory,”  and  though  his  original  ideas 
as  to  its  purpose  were  frustrated,  his  longings  that  here 
“ three  chantry  monks  should  say  prayers  for  his  soul  so 


126  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


long  as  the  world  endured,”  being  ruthlessly  disregarded 
by  his  own  son,  Henry  VIII.,  his  chapel  still  stands,  so 
that  with  Edward  the  Confessor  and  Henry  III.  he  ranks 
among  the  three  great  royal  builders  of  the  Abbey. 

Before  you  go  into  this  chapel  stand  for  a minute  in 
King  Edward’s  shrine,  with  its  stately  simplicity  ; then 
pass  under  the  chantry  of  Henry  V.,  simple  too,  but 
telling  of  strength,  of  life,  and  vigour  ; walk  up  the  steps 
of  Henry’s  Chapel  into  the  dark  entrance,  and  then  stay 
still  in  the  doorway  to  drink  in  the  matchless  beauty 
before  your  eyes.  Here,  simplicity  is  a word  unknown ; 
everywhere,  inside  and  out,  is  a wealth  of  carving ; no 
spot  or  corner  was  deemed  too  hidden  away  to  be 
ornamented ; roof  and  walls  alike  are  covered  with 
delicate  lacework  and  rich  embroidery  made  out  of 
stone. 

“ They  dreamed  not  of  a perishable  house  who  thus  could  build.” 

The  foundation-stone  was  laid  one  afternoon  in  the 
January  of  i 502  by  Islip,  “that  wise  and  holy  man  who 
was  Abbot  of  the  Westminster  monks,”  and  the  building 
was  solemnly  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  by 
order  of  Henry  VII.,  king  of  England  and  France  and 
Lord  of  Ireland.  The  work  went  on  quickly,  for  money 
was  not  lacking.  Abbot  Islip  was  a man  of  action,  and 
Henry  was  feverishly  anxious  that  the  building  should 
be  completed  in  his  lifetime.  Here  it  was  that  he 
meant  to  be  buried,  for  just  because  his  claim  to  the 
throne  was  not  a very  good  one,  he  was  doubly  anxious 
to  link  himself  on  by  many  different  ways  to  the  kings 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


127 


of  the  past.  Everywhere  in  his  chapel,  round  his  tomb, 
on  the  roof,  and  on  the  doorways,  you  will  find  his 
different  badges  set  up,  as  if  to  say,  “ Each  one  of  these 
badges  gave  me  the  right  to  be  king  of  England.”  You 
will  see  over  and  over  again  the  York  and  Lancaster 
roses;  the  portcullis  and  the  greyhound,  both  of  them 
Beaufort  badges,  which  had  come  to  him  through  his 
mother,  Margaret  Beaufort,  the  direct  descendant  of  John 
of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster ; the  red  dragon  of 
Cadwallader  of  Wales,  the  last  British  king,  whom 
Henry  alone  of  all  the  English  kings  proudly  claimed  as 
his  ancestor,  through  Owen  Tudor,  his  father;  and  the 
lion,  which  always  figured  in  the  royal  arms  of  England. 
These  badges,  everywhere  carved,  were  Henry’s  challenge 
to  any  one  who  might  dispute  his  claim. 

“We  will,”  said  Henry,  “ that  this  chapel  be 
wholly  and  perfectlie  fynished  with  all  spede ; and 
the  windows  glazed  with  stories,  imagies,  badgies,  and 
cognoisants ; that  the  walles,  doors,  archies,  windows, 
vaults,  and  imagies,  within  and  without  be  painted, 
garnished,  and  adorned  in  as  goodly  and  rich  manner  as 
such  a work  requireth  and  as  to  a king’s  work  apper- 
taigneth.” 

But  in  spite  of  all  the  speed  the  king  died  before  the 
work  was  finished,  and  never  saw  his  chapel  in  all  its 
costly  beauty.  Only  a few  days  before  his  death  he 
gave  the  Abbot  £S000  more,  “ in  redy  money  by  the 
hande,”  for  the  carrying  on  of  the  work,  and  his  will 
showed  how  deep  his  interest  lay,  for  he  solemnly 
charged  his  executors  to  advance  whatever  money  was 


128  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


needful,  and  to  choose  for  the  high  altar  “ the  greatest 
Image  of  our  Lady  we  have  in  our  Juel  house ; a Crosse 
of  plate  of  gold  upon  tymber,  chalices,  altar  suits,  vest- 
ments, candlesticks,  and  ornaments,”  all  of  them  to  bear 
the  royal  badges.  “ And  for  the  price  and  value  of 
them,”  he  concluded,  “ our  mynde  is,  that  thei  bei  of 
suche  as  appertaigneth  to  the  gifte  of  a prynce ; and 
therefore  we  wol  that  our  executours  in  that  partie 
have  a special  regarde  to  the  lawe  of  God,  the  weal 
of  our  soule  and  our  honour  royal.” 

Queen  Elizabeth  had  died  some  years  before  her 
husband,  and  had  been  impressively  laid  in  some  side 
chapel  of  the  Abbey.  Now,  on  Henry’s  death,  both 
were  buried  together  in  the  tomb  which  the  king  had 
ordered  should  be  in  the  middle  of  the  Chapel  by  the 
high  altar,  and  about  which  he  had  left  minute  in- 
structions as  to  the  images  of  himself  and  the  queen, 
the  inscription,  the  tabernacles  round  the  tomb  with 
the  images  of  saints  and  angels,  and  the  grating  of  copper 
and  gilt  for  its  protection. 

Certainly  the  tomb  was  made  worthy  of  the  exquisite 
chapel  which  enshrined  it,  and  Henry’s  wishes  were 
faithfully  carried  out  in  this  respect.  An  Italian,  Tor- 
regiano,  made  the  images  of  the  king  and  queen  in  gilt 
bronze,  and  Torregiano  was  something  of  a genius,  for 
all  his  images  have  a wonderful  life  of  their  own.  Yet 
he  must  have  been  anything  but  a pleasant  visitor  to 
the  monastery  precincts,  for  he  was  a bold  man,  with  a 
loud  voice,  frowning  eyebrows,  and  fierce  gestures,  who 
daily  boasted  of  his  feats  among  the  beasts  of  English- 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


129 


men,  and  told  how  he  had  broken  the  nose  of  his  rival 
Michael  Angelo ; or  how  he  had  shattered  to  pieces  an 
image  of  the  Virgin,  because  there  was  some  dispute 
about  the  price  to  be  paid  him.  However,  we  must  for- 
give him  his  violent  temper  out  of  gratitude  for  his 
beautiful  work. 

The  grating  round  the  tomb  was  made  by  English 
workmen,  and  here  again  you  will  see  everywhere  the 
king’s  badges.  And  I want  you  to  notice,  too,  the  little 
angels  who  stand  round  the  king  and  queen,  for  they 
look  as  if  they  had  just  flown  there  for  a moment,  so 
lightly  are  they  poised.  Then  you  must  look  at  the 
carvings  round  the  tomb,  those  Saints  whom  the  king  had 
chosen  to  be  his  guardians : the  Virgin  Mary  with  Christ 
in  her  arms  and  St.  Michael  at  her  side ; St.  John  the 
Baptist  pointing  to  a picture  of  the  Lamb  of  God;  St.  John 
the  Evangelist  holding  his  Gospel  in  his  hand,  an  eagle 
standing  at  his  feet ; St.  George  of  England  standing  on 
the  vanquished  Dragon,  and  with  him  St.  Anthony  dressed 
as  a monk ; Mary  Magdalene  with  her  box  of  precious 
ointment ; St.  Barbara  holding  a three-windowed  tower ; 
St.  Christopher  bearing  on  his  shoulder  the  Christ  Child, 
and  St.  Edward  the  Confessor  crowned  in  glory. 

Just  outside  the  screen  must  have  stood  a beautiful 
altar,  also  the  work  of  Torrigiano,  an  altar  of  white 
marble,  gilded  with  fine  gold,  enriched  by  inlay  and 
carving,  the  central  figure  being  “ an  image,  erth  coloured 
of  Christ  dead ; ” but  this  was  wrecked  by  a fanatic 
named  Marlow  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  whose 
“ ignorant  zeal  was  such  that  he  brake  it  into  shivers, 

1 


130  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


though  it  was  a raritie  not  to  be  matched  in  any  part 
of  the  world.” 

As  you  stand  in  the  chapel  I want  you  to  gaze  up  at 
the  vaulted  roof,  which  seems  as  though  it  hung  in  mid 
air,  so  wonderful  is  the  design  with  its  fairy  grace  and 
lightness;  for  here  you  see  a beautiful  example  of  that 
fan-tracery  vaulting  which  was  peculiarly  English  in  its 
style,  and  which  in  this  case  was  probably  the  work  of 
two  English  masons,  John  Hyham  and  William  Vertue. 
Then  you  must  look  around  at  the  army  of  Saints  and 
Martyrs  who  guard  the  walls ; king,  apostle,  saint  con- 
fessor, all  are  here,  and  the  niches  in  which  they  stand 
are  delicately  carved  and  decorated.  And  you  must 
try  to  imagine  the  glory  of  the  windows  in  those  early 
days  when,  filled  with  “ goode,  clene,  sure,  and  perfyte 
glasse  of  oryent  eolours,  and  the  imagery  of  the  story 
of  the  olde  lawe  and  the  new  lawe,”  they  reflected  their 
rich  hues  around.  Now  only  one  little  part  of  those 
many  painted  windows  remains,  but  that  is  a figure  of 
Henry  VII.,  who  looks  down  over  the  chapel  which  he 
raised. 

The  carved  oaken  stalls  intended  for  the  monks  were 
not  all  finished  at  this  time,  and  as  is  so  often  the 
case  with  such  stalls,  there  is  nothing  sacred  about  the 
character  of  the  ornaments  carved  on  them.  On  the 
contrary,  they  aim  at  being  amusing ; and  you  will  find 
quaint  figures  of  monkeys  winnowing  corn ; of  foxes  in 
armour  riding  on  the  backs  of  cocks ; of  fiends  seizing 
a miser ; of  turkeys  chasing  a boy ; a bear  playing 
on  bagpipes,  and  so  on.  In  the  year  1725  George  I. 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  & Co. 


Gates  of  Henry  VII. 's  Chapel. 


THE  WARS  OF  THE  ROSES 


131 

reconstructed  the  old  order  of  Knights  of  the  Bath,  and 
as  from  the  days  of  Richard  II.  it  had  been  the  custom 
only  to  create  such  knights  at  a coronation  and  when 
a Prince  of  Wales  was  created,  the  Order  had  many 
associations  with  Westminster.  So  this  Chapel  of 
Henry  VII.  was  set  apart  as  the  Chapel  of  the  Order, 
just  as  the  Chapel  of  St.  George’s,  Windsor,  was  set 
apart  for  the  Order  of  the  Garter ; and  here  for  nearly 
a hundred  years  every  knight  was  installed ; here  was 
hung  his  banner ; and  here  was  fastened  up  over  his 
stall  the  plate  on  which  was  emblazoned  his  coat  of 
arms.  But  gradually  the  Order  became  so  large  that 
the  many  ceremonies  connected  with  it  had  to  cease, 
and  now  only  the  banners  which  hang  here  tell  us  of 
bygone  days. 

As  you  come  out,  take  a last  look  at  the  massive 
gates  of  oak  and  metal  serried  with  badges,  and  then 
stand  once  more  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
when  that  mass  of  carving  was  made  yet  more  rich  and 
beautiful  by  the  colours  which  blazed  everywhere,  from 
the  crimson,  blue,  and  purple  of  the  windows ; the  gold 
and  silver  vessels  on  the  altar ; the  gleaming  brass  of 
the  images ; the  gorgeous  vestments  of  the  priests ; the 
dazzling  whiteness  of  the  marble ; the  glitter  of  the 
tapers  round  the  tomb.  Think  of  how  Abbot  Islip  must 
have  gloried  in  this  new  gem  of  dazzling  beauty  now 
added  to  the  Abbey,  already  so  rich  in  treasure ; for 
Islip  was  of  “ a wakeful  conscience  ” and  held  himself 
the  steward  of  the  house  of  God,  so  that  he  too  did 
some  building  to  this  place,  and  evidently  won  the 


132  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


confidence  of  the  king,  who  made  him  paymaster  of  the 
workmen. 

As  for  Henry  himself,  the  chapel  has  become  a far 
greater  memorial  of  him  than  he  can  ever  have  deemed 
possible.  It  matters  little  to  us  now  what  was  his  real 
motive  in  raising  it,  even  if  it  were  possible  to  point 
to  any  one  unmixed  motive  which  inspired  him.  For 
us  it  is  enough  that  the  chapel  stands,  and  though  we 
need  not,  with  Fabyan  the  chronicler,  wax  enthusiastic 
over  “ the  excellent  wysdome,  sugared  eloquence,  won- 
derfull  dyscression,  the  exceedynge  treasure  and  rychesse 
innumerabyll  ” of  this  silent,  almost  gloomy  king,  let 
us  with  the  same  chronicler  “ remember  his  beautyfull 
buildyngs  and  his  liberell  endowments  at  Westminster, 
and  pray  that  he  may  attain  that  celestyall  mansion 
whych  he  and  all  trew  Christen  soules  are  inheritors 
unto,  the  whyche  God  hym  graunt.” 


E. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION 

A few  months  after  the  death  and  burial  of  Henry 
VII.,  another  royal  funeral  took  place  in  this  beautiful 
chapel  of  the  Tudors,  the  funeral  of  his  mother, 
Margaret,  the  “ venerable  lady,”  whose  influence  was 
far-reaching,  and  whose  holiness  had  won  for  her  such 
universal  love  and  reverence. 

“ It  would  fill  a volume  to  recount  her  good  deeds,” 
says  her  biographer,  and  he  goes  on  to  tell  how  she 
lived  a life  of  prayer  and  simplicity,  being  a member 
of  no  less  than  five  religious  houses ; how  she  herself 
waited  on  the  poor,  the  sick,  the  dying,  and  how  she 
freely  gave  of  her  wealth  for  the  encouragement  of 
learning.  “ Her  ears  were  spent  in  hearing  the  word  of 
God,  her  tongue  was  occupied  in  prayer,  her  feet  in 
visiting  holy  places,  her  hands  in  giving  alms.”  She 
provided  an  almshouse  for  poor  women  near  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  another  at  Hatfield,  and  besides  founding 
schools  and  colleges,  she  maintained  many  poor  scholars 
at  her  own  expense.  She  also  translated  many  works 
in  the  English  tongue.  It  was  in  Westminster  that  she 
desired  to  be  buried,  and  she  made  many  gifts  to  the  place 
which  her  son  was  so  richly  beautifying,  stipulating  in 

«33 


134  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


return  that  prayers  should  always  be  said  here  for 
herself  and  all  her  family.  She  was  destined  to  out- 
live son,  daughter-in-law,  and  grandson,  and  it  was 
not  till  1509  that  her  useful  life  of  close  on  three- 
score years  and  ten  came  to  an  end,  and  she  passed 
peacefully  away,  “ the  almoner  of  God,  the  friend  of 
the  poor,  the  supporter  of  true  religion,  the  patroness  of 
learning,  the  comforter  of  the  sorrowing,  the  beloved  of 
all.”  As  you  stand  by  her  monument  in  the  south  aisle 
of  Henry  VII.’s  Chapel,  look  at  her  strong,  noble  face, 
beautiful  in  its  calm  old  age,  her  hands  clasped  in  prayer 
as  was  their  wont ; and  while  you  are  lost  in  wonder  at 
the  skill  of  the  sculptor,  probably  Torrigiano,  I think 
you  will  realise  something  of  the  goodness  and  purity  of 
Margaret  Richmond,  which  this  sleeping  figure  makes  so 
vivid,  and  will  understand  how  “ every  one  that  knew  her 
loved  her,  for  everything  she  said  or  did  became  her.” 
It  was  well  for  her  that  she  did  not  live  long  enough  to 
see  her  clever  imperious  grandson  seeking  to  destroy  so 
many  of  the  things  which  she  had  loved  and  guarded. 

Henry  VIII.  came  to  the  throne  with  splendid  oppor- 
tunities. He  was  gifted  far  above  the  average : his 
manners  were  genial  and  taking ; he  could  talk  many 
languages ; he  was  devoted  to  sport,  a good  musician,  an 
admirable  wrestler;  fond  of  amusement,  but  fond  also  of 
more  serious  things ; and  the  people  were  prepared  to 
love  their  King  Hal,  for  he  was  in  every  way  a contrast 
to  his  father,  who  had  never  won  their  affections. 
Henry  was  a strong  man,  who  resolved  to  be  no  puppet 
in  the  hands  of  any  party  or  minister.  Yet  it  was  his 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  135 


will  which  ruined  his  character,  for  it  was  a will  entirely- 
bent  on  gaining  its  own  ends,  unchecked  by  any  sense 
of  duty,  untouched  by  any  appeal  to  high  or  noble 
motives.  What  he  desired  he  must  have,  and  all  that 
stood  in  his  way  must  be  swept  aside : he  would  spare 
no  one  who  thwarted  him ; nothing  weighed  in  the 
balance  against  the  gratification  of  his  own  whims  and 
fancies. 

You  will  remember  that  he  was  not  the  eldest  son 
of  Henry  VII.  His  brother  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales, 
had  died  in  1501,  a few  months  after  he  had  married 
Katherine,  the  Infanta  of  Spain,  and  chiefly  because  the 
idea  was  at  first  strongly  opposed,  Henry  made  up  his 
mind  to  marry  his  widowed  sister-in-law.  When  he 
came  to  the  throne,  he  at  once  carried  out  his  will  in 
this  matter,  and  brushed  aside  all  the  objections  that 
were  raised  on  account  of  the  close  relationship  existing 
between  the  two.  The  marriage  took  place  at  Green- 
wich, and  the  double  coronation  followed  at  Westminster 
on  Midsummer  Day  in  the  year  1509,  “amid  all  the 
rejoicings  in  the  world.”  Katherine  made  a beautiful 
queen,  dressed  in  white  with  cloth  of  gold,  her  long  hair 
hanging  down  to  her  feet,  and  little  dreamt  any  of  those 
who  cheered  her  on  her  way  of  all  that  was  to  spring 
out  of  that  marriage,  for  Henry  seemed  to  be  the  most 
devoted  of  husbands.  In  1 5 1 1 their  son  was  born,  and 
had  such  an  elaborate  christening  that  he  took  a cold 
from  which  he  never  recovered.  “ His  soul  returned  to 
among  the  Holy  Innocents  of  God,”  says  a Westminster 
manuscript,  and  we  are  told  how  “ the  queen  made 


136  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


much  lamentation,  but  by  the  king’s  persuasion  she 
was  at  last  comforted.”  The  baby  prince  was  certainly 
buried  in  the  Abbey,  though  exactly  where  is  unknown. 
But  his  death,  unimportant  as  it  must  have  seemed  at 
the  moment  to  those  who  took  part  in  the  funeral, 
had  in  reality  a deep  significance.  Henry  was  in- 
capable of  loving  any  one  for  long,  and  as  he  began 
to  grow  weary  of  Katherine,  he  made  it  a grievance 
that  her  other  child  was  a daughter  and  not  a son. 
Furthermore,  he  argued  to  himself  that  he  had  done 
wrong  in  marrying  his  brother’s  widow,  so  that  the 
death  of  his  son  was  the  sign  of  God’s  wrath,  and  then 
he  began  to  devise  how  he  could  dissolve  his  marriage 
with  her,  to  wed  instead  her  fascinating  maid  of  honour, 
Anne  Boleyn.  Only  the  Pope  could  grant  him  the 
divorce  that  he  desired,  and  accordingly  Henry  sent  his 
all-powerful  favourite,  Wolsey,  to  Rome  to  get  this 
consent.  But  the  Pope,  much  as  he  feared  Henry, 
feared  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  the  nephew  of  Queen 
Katherine,  much  more,  and  Wolsey,  on  his  side,  was 
anxious  not  to  offend  the  Pope,  as  his  ambition  was 
to  succeed  him,  so  it  all  ended  in  his  going  back  to 
Henry  without  having  the  desired  permission.  Henry 
was  furious,  and  Wolsey,  disgraced,  died  broken-hearted. 
The  king’s  next  step  was  to  defy  the  Pope,  and  to  send 
round  to  all  the  ministers  in  Europe,  asking  them 
whether  in  their  opinion  his  marriage  with  Katherine 
had  been  a legal  one.  But  their  answer  in  almost  every 
case  was  the  opposite  answer  to  what  Henry  had  de- 
termined on,  and  their  opposition  only  increased  his 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  137 


determination,  till  at  last,  urged  thereto  by  Thomas 
Cromwell,  Wolsey’s  successor  in  his  favour,  he  took  the 
bold  step  of  declaring  that  he  himself  was  the  head  of 
the  Church  in  England,  the  defender  of  the  faith,  and 
that  therefore  the  Pope  had  no  power  to  forbid  the 
divorce.  He  was  clever  enough  to  know  that  for  many 
a long  day  the  independent  spirit  of  the  English  nation 
had  rebelled  against  the  power  of  the  Pope  in  the  land ; 
that  the  revival  of  learning  had  set  men  thinking  for 
themselves ; that  the  teaching  of  Luther  and  the  other 
reformers  had  prepared  the  way  for  a great  change  in 
England,  and  that  he  could  count  on  his  Parliament  to 
support  him  in  declaring  himself  supreme  head  of  the 
Church  in  this  land.  Thus  whilst  pretending  to  cleanse 
and  purify  the  Church,  and  reform  the  many  errors 
which  had  crept  in,  Henry  really  was  true  to  his  general 
policy  of  sweeping  out  of  the  way  any  obstacle  to  his 
wishes.  The  Pope  had  opposed  him,  so  from  hence- 
forward he  would  deprive  the  Pope  of  all  authority  in 
England.  He  divorced  Katherine,  and  married  Anne 
Boleyn,  while  those  few  men  who  refused  to  go  against 
their  conscience  by  declaring  the  king  to  be  in  the  right 
on  this  question  of  his  marriage,  when  they  felt  him  to 
be  in  the  wrong,  did  so  at  the  cost  of  their  lives. 

But  the  king  had  not  yet  finished  with  the  Pope  ; 
urged  thereto  by  Cromwell,  who  earned  for  himself 
the  name  “ The  Hammer  of  the  Monks,”  he  proceeded 
to  attack  all  the  monasteries  and  religious  houses  in 
England,  and  there  were  many  hundreds  of  them,  which 
were  under  the  immediate  jurisdiction  of  Rome.  To 


138  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


these  religious  houses  England  owed  no  small  debt  of 
gratitude : the  monks  had  been  teachers,  scholars, 

chroniclers,  architects,  carvers,  painters,  translators,  and 
illuminators ; they  had  nursed  the  sick,  they  had  re- 
lieved the  needy ; they  had  been  the  great  employers 
of  labour,  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  and,  untouched  by  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide  outside,  they  had  gone  quietly 
on  with  their  daily  round  of  work  and  prayer,  keeping 
their  lights  ever  burning  before  the  altar  to  signify 
that  their  house  was  “always  watchynge  to  God.” 
But,  as  they  became  rich  and  powerful,  they  fell  away 
from  their  high  ideals  ; the  threefold  vow  of  poverty, 
obedience,  and  purity  ceased  to  sanctify  their  lives ; 
luxury  took  the  place  of  plain,  frugal  living ; the  monks 
no  longer  laboured  with  their  own  hands,  but  kept 
great  retinues  of  servants,  and  the  money  that  should 
have  been  spent  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  church 
was  squandered  in  extravagant  living.  The  abbots 
were  under  no  control  save  that  of  Rome,  and  Rome 
was  far  away,  so  that  there  was  no  power  from  outside 
to  correct,  to  reform,  and  to  purify.  Gradually,  too,  the 
monasteries  had  lost  their  hold  over  the  people ; resting 
on  their  past,  they  made  no  effort  to  keep  pace  with 
the  present ; they  bitterly  opposed  any  education  save 
that  which  they  held  in  their  own  hands ; they  resented 
progress  and  enlightenment ; they  were  no  longer  centres 
of  light  and  learning ; their  fire  had  burnt  out,  quenched 
by  covetousness,  by  wrong-doing  and  by  luxurious 
living. 

Cromwell  saw  in  them  an  opportunity  which  Henry 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  139 


was  all  too  ready  to  grasp.  A Commission  was  formed 
to  visit  and  report  on  the  universities  and  all  re- 
ligious houses ; and  when  the  visitors  had  finished  their 
work,  which  they  had  done  carefully  and  thoroughly, 
they  laid  their  verdict  before  the  House  of  Commons 
in  the  famous  Black  Book,  which  was  destroyed  some 
years  later  by  order  of  Queen  Mary.  Much  of  what 
it  contained  is  therefore  lost  to  us,  but  as  the  Commons, 
who  sat,  remember,  in  the  Chapter-Room  at  Westminster, 
heard  clause  after  clause  read  out,  which  told,  with  a 
few  honourable  exceptions,  a terrible  story  against  the 
monasteries,  they  could  not  restrain  themselves,  and 
over  and  over  again  shouts  of  “ Down  with  the  monks  ” 
rang  through  the  vaulted  building.  Generally  speaking, 
the  largest  of  the  monasteries  had  come  well  out  of 
the  inquiry,  and  Parliament  therefore  began  by  only 
dissolving  the  smaller  houses,  at  the  same  time  ordering 
that  the  lands  and  incomes  of  these  latter  should  be 
handed  over  to  the  king,  as  head  of  the  Church,  to  be 
spent  in  the  “ high  and  true  interests  of  religion.” 
Certainly  the  Commons  had  none  but  high  motives  in 
passing  this  Act,  and  never  dreamt  of  a general 
dissolution,  or  the  appropriation  of  all  that  immense 
wealth  for  anything  but  religious  or  educational  pur- 
poses. They  had  not  realised  Henry’s  greed,  “ which 
no  religion  could  moderate,  or  the  force  of  his  will, 
against  which  nothing,  however  sacred,  seemed  able 
to  stand.” 

The  mouks  at  Westminster  naturally  heard  very 
quickly  all  the  particulars  of  the  deliberations  which 


i4o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


had  taken  place  inside  the  Chapter-Room.  How  they 
must  have  lingered  about  the  cloisters  that  day ; how 
eagerly  and  excitedly  must  they  have  talked  during 
those  hours  when  talking  was  allowed,  wondering  in  what 
way  all  these  things  would  end ; how  they  must  have 
speculated  as  to  their  own  future,  and  that  of  the 
few  other  large  monasteries  in  which  the  Commissioners 
had  declared  that  “ thanks  be  to  God,  religion  had 
been  right  well  kept  and  observed.”  They  had  not 
long  to  wait. 

A general  order  issued  shortly  afterwards,  ordering 
the  removal  of  all  shrines,  images,  and  relics,  made  it 
clear  that  Henry  and  his  ministers  had  other  ideas 
beyond  the  reformation  of  religious  houses ; and  the 
monks,  who  gauged  the  character  of  the  king,  hastily 
moved  the  body  of  St.  Edward  to  some  sacred  spot, 
that,  at  least,  this  holy  possession  of  the  Abbey  might 
not  be  lost  to  it.  They  managed,  too,  to  hide  some 
of  the  treasures  which  beautified  Edward’s  shrine,  but 
much  of  the  gold  and  many  of  the  jewels  became  the 
property  of  the  king.  Altogether  nearly  800  monas- 
teries fell  into  the  hands  of  Henry,  and  without  any 
compunction  he  appropriated  their  lands  and  their 
wealth,  giving  away  to  his  favourites  of  the  moment 
what  he  did  not  desire  to  keep  for  himself.  Inside 
the  religious  houses  the  greatest  excitement  prevailed, 
and  much  diversity  of  opinion ; for  some  there  were 
among  the  abbots  and  monks  who  were  prepared  to  lose 
their  lives  rather  than  willingly  surrender  themselves 
to  the  king’s  will,  while  others,  more  the  children  of 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  141 


this  world  than  the  children  of  light,  deemed  that  by 
submission  could  they  best  hope  to  save  something  in 
this  overwhelming  deluge. 

At  Westminster,  under  Abbot  Benson,  the  monks 
chose  a prudent  course,  the  abbot  being  one,  as  an 
old  writer  severely  remarks,  “ whose  conscience  was  not 
likely  to  stand  in  his  way  on  any  occasion,”  and  in 
the  January  of  1540  the  Abbey  with  all  its  wealth 
was  voluntarily  handed  over  to  the  king. 

Partly  perhaps  on  account  of  this  absolute  submission, 
but  much  more  because  even  Henry  had  still  reverence 
for  a place  which  was  peculiarly  royal  in  all  its  associa- 
tions, Westminster  was  in  some  degree  saved.  The 
old  order  indeed  was  destined  to  pass  away  ; its  wealth 
was  to  be  a thing  of  the  past,  save  for  the  wealth  of 
beauty  in  sculptured  stone  which  could  not  easily  be 
taken  from  it,  and  which  still  remained  unrivalled  even 
when  all  the  gold  and  jewels  and  plate  excepting  a 
silver  pot,  two  gilt  cups,  three  hearse  clothes,  twelve 
cushions  and  some  other  clothes,  had  been  carried  away 
to  satisfy  greedy  courtiers,  “ leaving  the  place  very 
bare.” 

But  Henry  converted  the  building  into  a cathedral, 
giving  it  a bishop,  a dean,  prebendaries,  minor  canons, 
all  these  offices  with  the  exception  of  the  Bishopric 
being  filled  by  the  monks  belonging  to  the  establish- 
ment. The  Bishop,  Thirleby,  was  ordered  to  make  the 
abbot’s  house  his  palace;  Abbot  Benson,  now  Dean, 
took  up  his  residence  in  humble  quarters,  and  all  the 
old  glory  of  the  monastery  departed  for  ever,  while 


142  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Henry  was  quite  £60,000  a year  richer  in  our  money. 
Those  of  the  monks  for  whom  no  place  could  be  found 
under  the  new  system  were  pensioned  off,  and  many 
of  the  buildings,  such  as  the  refectory  and  the  smaller 
dormitory,  no  longer  needed  for  the  cowled  figures  who 
for  so  many  generations  had  used  them,  were  pulled 
down  or  put  to  fresh  uses. 

Nor  was  the  monastery  the  only  part  of  Westminster 
which  fell  from  its  greatness.  Earlier  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  a fire  had  destroyed  much  of  the  old  Palace, 
and  the  king,  who  cared  but  little  for  it,  set  his  heart 
on  York  House  close  by,  at  Whitehall,  once  the  London 
house  of  the  Bishops  of  York,  afterwards  the  residence 
of  Wolsey. 

The  Cardinal  lived  in  state ; indeed  Westminster  was 
but  a humble  dwelling  compared  to  this  magnificent 
palace,  and  on  his  disgrace,  Henry  took  possession  of  it. 
For  more  than  a hundred  and  fifty  years  it  was  the 
royal  palace,  with  fine  courts,  halls  and  chambers,  its 
own  chapel  and  offices,  its  bowling-green,  tent  yard, 
cock-pit,  and  tennis  courts,  and  meanwhile  the  gabled, 
sculptured  Westminster  Palace,  the  home  of  Saxon, 
Norman,  and  Plantagenet  kings,  fell  to  pieces.  For  us, 
both  are  now  but  phantom  palaces,  with  hardly  a trace 
of  either  remaining  to  recall  the  glories  of  the  past. 

But  in  the  story  of  the  Abbey,  this  change  from 
Westminster  to  Whitehall  had  more  than  a passing 
effect ; from  henceforth  the  old  intimate  association 
between  the  Palace  and  Abbey  ceased  to  exist,  and 
Henry  thus  broke  one  more  link  with  the  traditions 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  143 


of  his  ancestors.  Not  even  the  chapel  of  his  father, 
now  no  longer  called  the  Lady  Chapel,  but  instead  St. 
Saviour’s  Chapel,  had  any  attractions  for  one  in  whose 
nature  reverent  affection  for  old  associations  was  en- 
tirely absent,  and  at  his  own  desire,  Henry  was  buried 
at  Windsor,  by  his  “true  and  loving  wife,  Jane  Sey- 
mour,” who  had  kept  in  his  good  graces  by  giving  him 
a son,  and  then  dying  before  he  had  time  to  grow 
weary  of  her.  Of  all  his  wives,  only  the  plain  and 
placid  Anne  of  Cleves  was  buried  in  the  Abbey,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Altar,  and  “ she  had  but  half  a monu- 
ment,” says  Fuller,  though  her  funeral  was  an  elaborate 
one,  by  order  of  Mary,  who  was  then  queen. 

King  Edward  VI.,  just  ten  years  old,  succeeded  his 
father ; and  the  members  of  his  council,  especially  his 
uncle,  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  strongly  in  favour  of  the 
Reformed  Church,  were  determined  that  the  Pope 
should  not  win  back  any  of  his  old  authority.  In  this, 
all  the  thinking  people  were  of  their  opinion,  but  some 
of  the  poor  people,  who  had  formerly  received  much  in 
charity  from  the  monks,  were  very  bitter,  and  there  was 
more  than  one  rebellion  in  favour  of  the  monasteries. 
However,  these  were  put  down,  and  the  reformers  went 
on  with  their  work.  Edward  was  crowned  as  Head  of 
the  Church  in  England,  and,  for  the  first  time,  a Bible, 
translated  into  the  English  tongue,  was  set  in  his  hands 
at  the  coronation  service.  For  only  within  the  last  ten 
years  had  the  Bible  been  read  to  the  people  in  a lan- 
guage they  could  understand,  and  you  will  remember 
how  first  Wycliffe,  and  then  Tyndale,  had  failed  in  their 


144  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


attempts  to  place  this  book  in  the  hands  of  all,  that  all 
might  read  and  learn  of  God’s  teachings,  by  the  light  of 
the  understanding  which  God  had  given  them.  Two 
years  after  the  coronation  a Prayer-Book  was  published, 
also  in  English,  not  exactly  the  same  Prayer-Book  as  we 
use  now,  for  as  time  went  on  the  spirit  of  the  people 
changed  in  favour  of  a still  simpler  service  than  that  which 
found  favour  with  the  early  reformers  in  England,  and 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  a revised  Prayer-Book  was 
issued,  as  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  our  present  translation 
of  the  Bible  was  authorised.  But  it  was  in  Edward’s 
reign  that  an  English  Bible  and  Prayer-Book  first  found 
their  way  into  the  Abbey. 

The  plan  of  having  a Bishop  at  Westminster  does 
not  seem  to  have  succeeded.  Thirleby  was  removed  to 
Norwich,  and  Richard  Cox  became  the  Dean.  But 
he  remained  in  the  simple  quarters,  near  the  Little 
Cloister,  which  had  been  assigned  to  Dean  Boston,  and 
the  Abbot’s  house  passed  into  the  possession  of  a lay- 
man for  the  time  being.  Protector  Somerset  had  cer- 
tainly no  feeling  of  veneration  for  the  grand  old  pile 
of  buildings.  Not  only  did  he  put  the  Abbey  under  the 
Bishop  of  London,  and  insist  on  cart-loads  of  stone, 
which  once  had  formed  part  of  the  solid  monastery 
buildings,  being  used  for  his  own  palace,  Somerset 
House,  but  of  the  few  lands  which  still  remained  to 
the  Abbey,  he  took  some  and  made  them  over  to  St. 
Paul’s,  from  time  immemorial  the  rival  of  Westminster. 
You  have  often  heard  the  saying  “ robbing  Peter  to  pay 
Paul ; ” now  you  know  its  origin.  And  as  if  to  cut 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  145 


off  every  possible  association  with  the  past,  the  House  of 
Commons  moved  from  the  Chapter  House  to  St.  Stephen’s 
Chapel,  part  of  the  old  Westminster  Palace,  and  there 
met  until  the  great  fire  in  1834,  after  which  the  present 
Houses  of  Parliament  were  built. 

But  with  the  death  of  Edward,  who  had  reigned  seven 
years,  and  the  defeat  of  the  Protestant  party,  who  had 
tried  to  set  Lady  Jane  Grey  on  the  throne,  there  came  a 
flicker  of  prosperity  to  the  Abbey,  a dim  reflection,  as  it 
were,  of  its  bygone  greatness.  For  Queen  Mary  was  a 
devout  Roman  Catholic,  and  so  soon  as  it  lay  in  her 
power,  she  dissolved  the  chapter  or  cathedral  body,  re- 
stored the  monastery,  and  gave  the  post  of  Abbot  to 
Fakenham,  who  was  “ a person  of  learning,  good-natured, 
and  very  charitable  to  the  poor.” 

Edward  was  buried  at  Westminster,  close  to  his  grand- 
father, Henry  VII.,  and  underneath  the  altar  of  Tor- 
rigiano,  of  which  I have  already  told  you,  so  that  the  last 
Roman  Catholic  and  the  first  really  Protestant  king  of 
England  lay  side  by  side,  under  the  same  exquisite  roof, 
a striking  commentary  on  the  fact  that  the  Reformation 
was  not  a complete  wrench  with  the  past,  but  a transi- 
tion from  old  to  new  according  to  the  unchangeable  law 
of  progress. 

Mary  was  crowned  on  October  10,  and  on  the  coro- 
nation morning  she  journeyed  in  the  royal  barge  from 
Whitehall  to  the  private  waterstairs  of  old  Westminster 
Palace,  and  from  thence  went  into  the  Parliament 
chamber,  where  she  robed.  Blue  cloth  covered  the 
ground  all  the  way  from  Westminster  Hall  to  the 

K 


1 46  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


choir  in  the  Abbey,  but  here  the  altar  blazed  witli 
cloth  of  gold,  and  rich  covers  hung  all  around,  while 
the  floor  was  strewn  with  fresh  rushes,  a quaint 
contrast  to  everything  else.  The  Archbishops  of 
Canterbury  and  York  and  the  Bishop  of  London 
were  already  in  the  Tower  as  prisoners,  so  it  was 
Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  who  met  the  queen  and 
performed  the  service,  at  which  there  was  much  dismay 
among  the  people,  for  they  said  it  had  ever  boded 
ill  for  England  when  the  Archbishop  did  not  crown  the 
sovereign.  The  old  coronation  service  with  its  full  cere- 
monial was  used,  and  the  queen  was  very  devout,  kneel- 
ing long  in  silent  prayer. 

Four  days  later,  the  queen  again  rode  to  the  Abbey, 
this  time  to  open  her  Parliament.  But  the  occasion  did 
not  pass  by  without  some  disturbances,  for  some  who 
refused  to  kneel  while  the  Mass  was  being  celebrated 
were  turned  out  by  force. 

The  restoration  of  her  religion  was  the  object  dearer 
than  all  others  to  Mary’s  heart,  and  her  unfaltering 
belief  that  in  so  doing  she  was  working  the  will  of  God, 
added  to  her  passionate  enthusiasm  for  her  faith,  are  the 
only  excuses  we  can  plead  for  her,  when  we  shudder 
at  the  cruel  persecutions  which  made  England  a land 
of  terror  during  the  next  few  years.  Here  it  is  only 
necessary  to  say  that,  as  always,  persecution  purified 
and  strengthened  the  very  cause  it  was  destined  to  de- 
stroy, and  Mary,  during  her  five  years’  reign,  made  her 
people  hate  her  so  bitterly,  that  nothing  but  her  death 
prevented  a general  rebellion. 


THE  ABBEY  AND  THE  REFORMATION  147 


She  died  a wretched,  lonely  woman,  conscious  of  her 
utter  failure. 

“My  oppressed  heart  is  pierced  by  many  wounds,” 
she  said  bitterly  at  the  last. 

Her  funeral  took  place  with  much  state,  but  the  only 
real  mourners  were  the  priests  and  monks,  who  feared 
for  their  own  fate.  Mary  had  entreated  that  she 
might  not  be  buried  in  royal  array.  Her  crown  had 
brought  her  no  happiness,  she  said,  and  she  did  not  wish 
to  be  encumbered  by  it  now.  Behind  her  coffin  rode  her 
ladies,  with  black  trains  so  long  that  they  swept  the 
ground.  Mass  was  said  before  the  High  Altar  for  the  last 
time,  while  Fakenham,  the  last  Abbot  of  Westminster, 
as  he  himself  well  knew,  preached  a great  sermon  on  the 
dead  queen,  and,  in  a voice  trembling  with  deep  feeling, 
told  how  she  was  too  good  for  earth,  a veritable  angel, 
who  had  found  the  realm  poisoned  with  heresy,  and  had 
purged  it. 

But  his  words  found  no  echo  in  the  heart  of  those 
around,  and  the  funeral  ended  in  a scene  of  disorder,  for 
the  people  had  no  respect  for  the  dead,  and  plucked 
down  all  the  hangings  and  draperies,  while  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York,  “ in  the  midst  of  the  hurly-burly,  pro- 
nounced that  a collation  was  prepared,”  whereupon  the 
lords,  ladies,  and  knights,  with  the  bishops  and  Abbot 
Fakenham,  hurried  to  another  part  of  the  building  for 
dinner. 

And  no  monument  was  erected  to  the  memory  of  her 
who  was  the  last  queen  of  the  old  faith  to  be  buried  in 
the  Abbey. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII. 

On  November  17,  1558,  Mary  died,  and  that  very  day 
Parliament  met  in  old  Westminster  Palace  “ to  proclaim 
without  further  halt  of  time  the  Lady  Elizabeth  as  queen 
of  this  realm.”  Shouts  of  “ God  save  Queen  Elizabeth  ” 
resounded  through  the  walls,  and  outside  the  cry  “ Long 
live  our  Queen  Elizabeth  ” was  taken  up  with  heartfelt 
intensity  by  the  people,  who  believed,  and  not  in  vain, 
that  with  her  their  deliverance  had  come.  She  had 
suffered,  they  had  suffered,  both  in  the  same  great 
cause,  and  now  together  they  were  standing  in  the  dawn 
of  a day  which  promised  to  be  fair  and  radiant.  The 
Spanish  influence,  which  they  hated  passionately,  as 
Englishmen  have  ever  been  wont  to  hate  foreign  inter- 
ference, had  received  its  death-blow,  for  here  was  a 
queen,  “ born  mere  English,  here  among  us,  and  there- 
fore most  natural  to  us,”  who  understood  them,  and 
whom  they  could  freely  trust.  No  wonder  that  there 
were  no  signs  of  mourning  for  the  dead  queen,  only 
irrepressible  joy  and  relief  at  the  accession  of  the  new 
sovereign  they  were  prepared  to  love  so  loyally.  But 
no  wonder  either  that  the  echoes  of  the  cheers  which 
reached  the  Abbey  fell  on  some  hearts  which  could  not 

148 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII.  149 


respond  to  them.  To  Fakenham,  with  his  handful  of 
monks,  those  shouts  of  joy  were  as  a death-kuell,  though 
the  Abbot  himself  may  have  had  some  hopes  that 
Elizabeth  would  remember  how  he  had  pleaded  with 
Mary  for  her  freedom. 

The  coronation  festivities,  which  began  January  15, 
put  London  in  a delirium  of  rejoicings,  and  though  the 
royal  exchequer  was  so  low  that  there  was  no  money 
available  for  costly  preparations,  the  people  more  than 
compensated  for  this  by  the  pageants  and  decorations 
they  organised  out  of  the  fulness  of  their  hearts.  “ The 
queen,”  says  an  officer  who  followed  the  procession,  “ as 
she  entered  the  city  was  received  with  prayers,  welcom- 
ings,  cries  and  tender  words,  with  all  those  signs  which 
argue  the  earnest  love  of  subjects  towards  their  sovereign. 
She,  by  holding  up  her  hands  and  glad  countenance  to 
such  as  stood  afar  off,  and  most  tender  language  to  those 
that  stood  near,  showed  herself  no  less  thankful  to 
receive  the  people’s  goodwill  than  they  to  offer  it,  and 
to  such  as  bade  ‘ God  save  her  Grace,’  she  said  in 
return,  ‘ God  save  you  all,’  so  that  the  people  were 
wonderfully  transported  at  the  loving  answers  and 
gestures  of  the  queen.” 

Only  one  bishop  could  be  found  to  read  the  corona- 
tion service,  as  those  few  Protestants  who  had  escaped 
with  their  lives  across  the  seas  had  not  yet  returned 
from  their  exile,  and  the  Roman  Catholics  refused  to 
assist,  though  no  alterations  were  introduced  into  the 
service,  excepting  that  the  Litany,  the  Gospel,  and  the 
Epistle  were  ordered  to  be  read  in  English.  This  bishop, 


i5o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


with  the  singers,  met  the  queen  at  Westminster  Hall 
on  the  following  day,  a Sunday,  and  to  the  fine  old 
hymn,  “ Hail,  Festal  Day,”  the  procession  wended  its 
way  into  the  Abbey,  and  the  solemn  ceremony  took 
place. 

Nor  did  Elizabeth  at  first  make  any  changes  in  the 
Abbey  services.  It  was  her  desire,  she  declared  at  the 
opening  of  her  Parliament  ten  days  later,  “ to  unite  the 
people  of  the  realm  in  one  uniform  order,”  and  though 
she  was  determined  that  the  English  Church  should  be 
utterly  severed  from  Roman  control,  and  that  the  Bible 
should  be  an  open  book,  she  understood  the  bulk  of  her 
people  well  enough  to  know  that,  as  Bishop  Creighton 
has  so  clearly  put  it,  “ what  they  wished  for  was  a 
national  church,  independent  of  Rome,  with  simple 
services,  not  too  unlike  those  to  which  they  had  been 
accustomed.”  So,  at  the  state  service  in  the  Abbey  on 
this  occasion,  the  Mass  was  celebrated  with  the  usual 
ritual,  though  the  sermon  was  preached  by  a certain 
Doctor  Cox,  who  was  a vigorous  Protestant. 

Elizabeth’s  first  Parliament  gave  over  to  her  all  the 
religious  houses  revived  by  her  sister,  and  she  decided 
to  once  more  make  Westminster  a Cathedral  church, 
though  without  a bishopric.  Possibly  if  Fakenham  had 
been  a more  time-serving  man,  he  might  have  managed 
to  stay  on  under  the  new  regime  as  Dean,  but  he  was 
uncompromisingly  true  to  his  principles ; he  refused  to 
acknowledge  any  one  but  the  Pope  as  head  of  the  Church, 
and  in  the  House  of  Lords  he  made  a strong  speech 
against  the  English  Prayer-Book.  His  reign  at  West- 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII.  15 1 


minster  had  been  a short  one,  but  he  had  not  failed  in 
his  duty  towards  the  precious  trust  committed  to  his 
care.  The  Confessor’s  Chapel,  shrine  of  the  English 
saint,  was  still  the  greatest  treasure  of  the  Abbey,  and 
to  this  he  had  caused  the  body  of  the  king,  hidden, 
you  will  remember,  by  the  monks  at  the  first  threat  of 
dissolution,  to  be  carried  back  “ withr  the  most  goodly 
singing  and  chanting  ever  heard,”  after  he  had  repaired 
the  shrine  itself  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  assisted  by 
Queen  Mary,  who  had  sent  him  some  jewels.  More- 
over, in  Parliament  he  successfully  defended  the  right 
of  sanctuary,  so  that  this  remained  for  some  time  longer 
at  least  an  Abbey  privilege,  and  altogether  it  is  pleasant 
to  remember  this  last  Abbot  as  one  who  was  true  to  the 
light  as  he  saw  it,  a kindly,  moderate,  honest  man,  a 
firm  friend,  a fair  enemy,  a fine  solitary  figure  standing 
out  among  his  fellows.  It  is  said  that  when  in  1560 
the  bill  was  passed  in  Parliament  which  decided  the 
fate  of  Westminster  and  the  other  remaining  monas- 
teries, a messenger  who  came  to  bring  the  news  to 
Abbot  Fakenham  found  him  busy  planting  young  elms 
in  the  Dean’s  yard. 

“ Cease  thy  labours,  my  lord  Abbot,”  he  said.  “ This 
planting  of  trees  will  avail  thee  nothing  now.” 

But  the  old  Abbot  wras  not  so  mean-spirited. 

“ I verily  believe,”  he  made  answer,  “ that  so  long 
as  this  church  endureth,  it  shall  be  kept  for  a seat  of 
learning.” 

And  he  went  on  contentedly  with  his  work. 

He  lived  for  twenty-five  years  after  he  left  the 


152  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Abbey,  under  a certain  amount  of  restraints,  and  great 
efforts  were  made  to  induce  him  to  change  his  faith. 
But  he  never  wavered,  and  so  far  as  possible  withdrew 
from  all  controversy,  spending  his  time  and  his  sub- 
stance among  the  poor.  “ Like  an  axil  tree,  he  stood 
firm  and  fixed  in  his  own  judgments,”  says  Fuller, 
“ while  the  times,  like  the  wheels,  turned  backwards 
and  forwards  round  him.” 

Westminster  stood  aloof  from  the  keen  religious  con- 
troversies which  raged  around,  and  quietly  stepped  into 
its  new  position.  It  was  now  neither  a monastery  nor 
a cathedral,  but  a “ collegiate  church,”  as  it  is  to-day, 
with  its  Dean  and  Chapter  and  its  school.  Yery 
little,  if  anything,  happened  to  disturb  the  peace 
of  the  Abbey  under  the  rule  of  its  three  excellent 
Deans  appointed  by  Elizabeth — Bill,  Goodman,  and 
Andrewes ; the  only  sign  of  the  times  which  deserves 
noticing  being  that  more  and  more  it  became  the 
custom  to  bury  distinguished  people  not  of  royal 
blood  within  these  honoured  walls.  Otherwise  we 
may  well  quote  the  words  of  Widmore,  who  in 
summing  up  this  epoch  in  Westminster  history,  con- 
cludes— “ It  may  here  be  remarked  that  though  mis- 
fortunes and  disturbances  in  a place  give  opportunity 
to  an  historian  to  make  observations  and  show  his 
eloquence,  while  they  also  entertain  the  reader,  yet 
peace  and  quietness  are  good  proofs  both  of  the 
happiness  of  the  times  and  the  discretion  of  those 
who  govern.” 

On  the  24th  of  March  1603,  Elizabeth  died  after  a 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII.  153 


reign  of  forty-four  years,  during  which  she  had  never 
lost  her  hold  over  the  hearts  and  minds  of  her  people. 
As  a woman  she  had  her  failings  and  weaknesses,  but 
as  a queen  she  had  done  right  well  for  England,  and 
“round  her,  with  all  her  faults,  the  England  we  know 
grew  into  the  consciousness  of  its  destiny.  . . . She 
saw  what  England  might  become,  and  nursed  it  into 
the  knowledge  of  its  power.” 

The  outburst  of  grief  at  her  death  was  her  people’s 
acknowledgment  of  the  debt  they  owed  her.  They  had 
trusted  her,  and  not  in  vain ; she  had  understood  them, 
had  served  them,  and  had  loved  them.  On  the  day  of 
her  burying  at  Westminster  “ the  city  was  surcharged 
with  multitudes  of  all  sorts,  in  the  streets,  houses, 
windows,  leads,  and  gutters,  and  when  they  beheld  her 
statue  lying  on  the  coffin,  set  forth  in  royal  robes,  having 
a crown  upon  the  head  thereof,  a ball  and  sceptre  in 
either  hand,  there  was  such  a general  sighing,  weeping, 
and  groaniug  as  the  like  hath  not  been  seen  or  known 
in  the  memory  of  man,  neither  doth  any  history  mention 
any  people,  time,  or  state  to  make  the  like  lamentation 
for  the  death  of  their  sovereign.” 

Nor  did  her  memory  fade  away  with  her  life,  for  her 
tomb,  which  you  will  find  in  the  north  aisle  of  Henry 
VII.’s  Chapel,  became  familiar  to  her  people  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  “ a lovely  draught 
of  it  being  pictured  in  the  London  and  country 
churches.” 

The  monument  raised  to  her  memory  by  James  I. 
is  a fine  one  of  its  kind,  and  the  sculptor  has  given  us 


154  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


an  impression  of  her  strength  and  power  as  she  lies 
sleeping  there  in  royal  state,  guarded  by  lions,  though 
I think  we  cannot  help  missing  the  exquisite  little 
figures  of  saints  and  angels  banished  in  deference  to 
the  increasingly  severe  views  of  the  English  Churchmen. 
Here  is  the  translation  of  the  Latin  inscription  round 
the  monument,  which  certainly  described,  and  in  no  way 
exaggerated,  the  feelings  of  the  nation  towards  her : — 

“ To  the  eternal  memory  of  Elizabeth,  Queen  of 
England,  France,  and  Ireland,  Daughter  of  Henry  VIII., 
Grand-daughter  of  Henry  VII.,  Great-Grand-Daughter 
of  Edward  IV.  Mother  of  her  Country.  A Nursing 
Mother  of  religion  and  all  liberal  Sciences,  skilled  in 
many  languages,  adorned  with  excellent  adornments 
both  of  body  and  mind,  and  excellent  for  princely 
virtues  beyond  her  sex.  Religion  to  its  primitive 
purity  restored ; peace  settled ; Money  restored  to  its 
just  value;  Domestic  Rebellions  quelled;  France  re- 
lieved when  involved  with  internal  divisions ; The 
Netherlands  supported,  the  Spanish  Armada  vanquished ; 
Ireland,  almost  lost  by  rebels,  eased  by  routing  the 
Spaniards ; the  Revenues  of  both  Universities  much 
enlarged ; and  lastly,  all  England  enriched.  Elizabeth, 
during  forty-five  years,  a very  prudent  Governor,  a 
victorious  and  triumphant  Queen,  most  pious  and  most 
happy,  at  her  calm  death  in  her  seventieth  year,  left 
her  remains  to  be  placed  in  this  Church  which  she 
preserved,  until  the  hour  of  her  Resurrection  in  Christ.” 
In  arranging  for  this  lengthy  epitaph,  James  could 
not  fail  to  be  reminded  that  Queen  Mary,  who  lay  in 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  Gr  Co. 


Tomb  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  YII. 


155 


the  same  tomb  as  Elizabeth,  was  passed  over  in  cold 
silence,  so  he  added  a simple  sentence  pathetic  in  its 
restraint,  almost  an  appeal  on  behalf  of  the  one  whose 
life  had  been  such  a failure. 

“ Here  rest  we  two  sisters  Elizabeth  and  Mary,  fel- 
lows both  in  throne  and  grave,  in  the  hope  of  one 
resurrection.” 

In  life  everything  had  tended  to  separate  them,  but 
in  death  they  lay  together  at  peace. 

James  erected  another  monument  in  this  chapel,  on 
the  southern  side,  and  this  was  to  the  memory  of  his 
mother,  the  ill-fated  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  She  had 
been  buried  at  Peterborough,  but  her  son,  when  he 
came  into  the  inheritance  which  was  his,  through  her, 
very  rightly  caused  her  to  be  buried  among  the  kings 
and  queens  of  England.  Here  again  death  reconciled 
two  implacable  foes,  so  that  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  lies 
opposite  to  Elizabeth  in  this  chapel  of  the  Tudors. 
The  marble  figure,  with  its  sweet,  finely-cut  face  and 
its  graceful  draperies  and  its  delicate  lacework,  is  full 
of  charm,  and  makes  familiar  to  us  one  whose  fascinating 
beauty  was  her  own  undoing. 

And  now  we  come  to  a new  phase  in  the  history  of 
the  Abbey  ; for  though  after  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
several  kings  and  queens  of  England  were  buried  within 
its  walls,  to  none  of  them  was  a monument  raised,  not 
so  much  even  as  an  inscription  was  cut  on  the  stones 
over  their  graves.  With  the  Stuarts  began  a new  race 
of  kings,  and  under  their  rule  there  grew  up  a new  set 
of  relations  between  king  and  subjects.  They  preached 


156  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  declaring  them- 
selves to  be  above  any  laws  which  their  people  might 
desire  to  make  through  Parliament,  so  the  battle  had  to 
be  fought  out  between  king  and  Parliament,  a battle  so 
fierce  that  it  brought  once  more  civil  war  to  England, 
cost  Charles  the  First  his  life,  and  caused  James  II.  to 
flee  to  foreign  lands.  But  from  that  struggle  with  it3 
many  errors  there  at  last  developed 

“ That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings,” 

which  holds  together  to-day  the  throne  and  the  nation 
as  never  before  in  our  islaud  story. 

So  you  will  see  how,  as  the  people  became  more  and 
more  the  ruling  force  in  England,  it  was  the  representa- 
tives of  the  people — statesmen,  soldiers,  sailors,  writers, 
musicians,  travellers,  thinkers,  discoverers,  and  benefac- 
tors— who  stepped  into  the  foremost  places,  and  who 
were  thought  worthy  of  a resting-place  among  the  great 
kings  of  old  in  the  Abbey,  while,  with  a few  exceptions, 
the  sovereigns  of  England  were  buried  at  Windsor,  now 
the  most  important  of  all  the  royal  palaces. 

It  is  in  Henry  VII. ’s  Chapel  that  James  I.  himself 
was  buried  in  the  founder’s  tomb,  and  his  wife  Anne  of 
Denmark  lay  close  to  him.  Near  at  hand  you  will  see 
a beautiful  little  monument  of  a baby  in  a cradle,  which 
marks  the  grave  of  Princess  Sophia,  a baby  daughter 
of  James  I.  The  king  gave  orders  at  her  death  that 
she  should  be  buried  “ as  cheaply  as  possible,  without 
any  solemnity,”  but  in  spite  of  this,  and  although  she 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII. 


157 


was  only  two  days  old,  a great  number  of  lords,  ladies, 
and  officers  of  state  attended,  followed  the  little  coffin, 
which  was  brought  up  on  a black  draped  barge  from 
Greenwich,  and  which  was  met  at  the  Abbey  by  the 
heralds,  the  dean  and  prebends,  with  the  choir,  while 
an  antiphon  was  sung  to  the  organ.  The  royal  sculptor, 
Nicholas  Pourtian,  was  allowed  the  sum  of  one  hundred 
and  forty  pounds  for  her  monument,  and  he  must  have 
been  a great  lover  of  children  or  he  could  not  have 
thought  out  anything  so  charming  as  this  yellow-tinted, 
lace-covered  cradle  with  its  tiny  baby  occupant. 

Nor  is  the  inscription  less  pretty  in  idea  than  the  monu- 
ment, for  it  tells  us  how  Sophia,  “Royal  Rosebud,  snatched 
away  from  her  parents,  James,  King  of  Great  Britain, 
Ireland  and  France,  and  Queen  Anne,  that  she  might 
flourish  again  in  the  Rosary  of  Christ,  was  placed  here.” 

Next  to  her  is  her  sister  Mary  who  lived  to  be  two, 
and  then  died  of  fever,  saying  many  times  over  in  her 
wanderings  these  same  words,  “ I go,  I go,  away  I go.” 
Hers  too  is  a very  natural  little  figure,  in  spite  of  the 
stiff  straight  clothes  and  the  quaint  cap ; and  the  carver 
has  put  a great  deal  of  life  into  the  weeping  cherubs,  to 
whom  surely  not  the  most  rigid  Puritan  could  have 
objected.  In  this  same  corner  were  laid,  some  years 
later,  the  bones  found  by  some  workmen  under  the 
stairs  at  the  Tower  of  London,  supposed  to  be  those  of 
the  little  princes  who  had  been  murdered  there,  so  that 
at  last  King  Edward  the  Fifth  and  his  brother  were 
honourably  buried  near  their  more  fortunate  sister 
Elizabeth  of  York. 


158  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


The  tomb  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  is  really  a Stuart 
vault,  and  it  might  almost  be  called  the  vault  of  Royal 
Children,  for  more  than  thirty  are  buried  under  it. 
Here,  without  any  monumeut,  but  an  inscription  on  the 
floor,  lies  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son  of 
James,  who  gave  such  high  promise  both  of  character 
and  ability,  that  he  had  won  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and 
more  especially  of  the  Puritans,  in  a remarkable  degree. 
James,  though  holding  very  unsatisfactory  views  as  to 
the  rights  and  duties  of  a king,  had  nevertheless  brought 
up  his  son  wisely  and  had  educated  him  most  carefully. 
Before  he  was  six  he  had  been  instructed  “ how  to  be- 
have towards  God,  how  to  behave  when  he  should  come 
to  be  king,  and  how  to  behave  in  all  those  matters 
which  were  right  or  wrong  according  as  they  were  used  ; ” 
and  when  he  was  only  nine  he  wrote  in  Latin  to  his 
father  giving  an  account  of  the  books  he  had  been 
reading,  which  included  Cicero’s  Epistles. 

According  to  the  law  of  Scotland,  the  heir  to  the 
throne  was  not  allowed  to  be  brought  up  by  his  parents, 
but  was  sent  to  Stirling  Castle,  to  be  under  the  care  of 
the  Earl  of  Mar,  who  held  the  right  to  be  the  hereditary 
guardian,  and  this  accounts  for  the  many  letters  which 
passed  between  the  little  prince  and  the  king  and 
queen.  When  Elizabeth  died  and  James  became  king 
of  Great  Britain,  he  had  to  go  hastily  to  London,  but 
about  a year  later  he  sent  for  the  queen  to  come  “ with 
the  bairns  to  Windsor,  where  he  prayed  God  they  should 
all  have  a blyth  meeting.”  As  they  arrived  there  during 
the  festival  of  St.  George,  Prince  Henry  was  at  once 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII. 


159 


made  a Knight  of  the  Garter,  and  his  “ princely  carriage 
and  his  learned  behaviour  ” on  that  occasion  greatly 
impressed  every  one  who  saw  him.  The  coronation  of 
James  was  fixed  for  St.  James’s  Day,  but  because  of  the 
plague  raging  in  London,  all  the  fair  pageants  and  the 
public  rejoicings  were  hastily  countermanded,  so  that  the 
ceremony  was  almost  a private  one,  even  the  usual  pro- 
cession through  the  city  being  left  out.  Great  was  the 
disappointment  of  the  Londoners,  though  they  were  pro- 
mised that  so  soon  as  the  plague  had  disappeared  the 
king,  with  the  queen  and  their  children,  would  visit  the 
city  with  all  the  state  of  a coronation  procession. 

One  part  of  this  coronation  service  was  of  special  interest ; 
and  to  many  people  it  meant  the  fulfilment  of  an  old  prophecy. 
For  more  than  eight  hundred  years  before  these  words  had 
been  roughly  carved  on  the  sacred  stone  of  Scone — 

If  Fates  go  right,  where’er  this  stone  is  found 

The  Scots  shall  monarchs  of  that  realm  be  crowned. 

And  now,  seated  on  the  Coronation  Chair  which  held  that 
stone,  James  VI.  of  Scotland  was  crowned  as  James  I. 
of  England. 

Prince  Henry  was  still  brought  up  away  from  home, 
first  in  company  with  his  sister,  the  merry  and  wdtty 
little  Princess  Elizabeth,  who  afterwards  married  the 
Elector  Palatine.  Brother  and  sister  were  devoted  to 
each  other : both  were  full  of  the  highest  spirits, 

ready  for  any  adventure ; both  loved  riding  and  games, 
and  would  “ mount  horses  of  prodigious  mettle ; ” and 
it  was  a great  grief  to  them  when  they  were  parted, 


1 6o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


though,  woman-like,  Elizabeth  fretted  the  longer.  Prince 
Henry  was  more  of  a philosopher. 

“That  you  are  displeased  to  be  left  in  solitude  I can 
well  believe,”  he  wrote  to  her ; “ you  women  and  damsels 
are  sociable  creatures.  But  you  know  those  who  love 
each  other  best  cannot  always  be  glued  together.” 

Meanwhile  Henry  took  up  his  resideuce  at  Hampton 
Court.  The  Gunpowder  Plot  left  a deep  impression  on 
him,  for  had  it  succeeded  he  would  have  lost  his  life, 
and  he  became  still  more  serious  and  thoughtful,  making 
friends  only  with  those  who  could  teach  him  something 
about  the  many  things  in  which  he  took  an  interest, 
ships,  guns,  fortifications,  books,  foreign  lands,  politics  and 
so  on.  For  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  that  adventurous  sailor 
and  treasure-hunter,  now  a prisoner  in  the  Tower,  he  had 
the  greatest  affection,  and  spent  many  hours  walking  up 
aud  down  the  terrace  with  him  talking  of  ships  and  the 
sea,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  old  man,  who  found  him 
an  enthusiastic  and  intelligent  companion  and  at  one  with 
him  in  his  opinion  that  a strong  navy  meant  peace  for 
England.  In  vain  Henry  pleaded  with  his  father  to  set 
free  this  prisoner  who  had  committed  no  crime  save  that 
of  offending  Spain.  But  James  and  his  son  were  of  very 
different  natures,  and  James  was  always  doggedly  obsti- 
nate. “ No  one  but  the  King  would  shut  up  such  a 
bird  in  a cage,”  said  the  boy  sadly. 

In  1610  he  was  created  Prince  of  Wales,  and  there 
were  great  festivities  in  the  White  Chamber  of  West- 
minster Palace,  as  there,  in  the  presence  of  the  Lords  and 
Commons,  he  knelt  before  the  king,  wearing  a robe  of 


Interior  looking  East. 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII. 


161 


purple  velvet,  to  receive  the  crown  of  Llewellyn.  Once 
again  he  won  all  hearts,  and  the  members  of  Parliament 
congratulated  themselves  that  so  worthy  a prince  was 
heir  to  the  throne.  He  became  more  and  more  the  idol 
of  the  people,  and  indeed  rarely  if  ever  since  the  days  of 
Edward,  the  Black  Prince,  had  a king’s  son  been  so  full 
of  promise.  But  to  the  utter  grief  of  the  nation  he 
died  two  years  later,  after  a short  illness. 

“Are  you  pleased  to  submit  yourself  to  the  will  of 
God  ? ” asked  the  Archbishop,  when  all  hope  was  given 
up. 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  the  boy  answered  simply. 

“I  had  written  him  a treatise  on  the  ‘ Art  of  War  by 
Sea,’  ” said  Raleigh,  when  the  sad  news  reached  him. 
“ But  God  hath  spared  me  the  labour  of  finishing  it.  I 
leave  him  therefore  in  the  hands  of  God.” 

When  the  long  funeral  procession  passed  through  the 
streets  “ there  was  a great  outcry  among  all  people,”  and 
it  was  to  the  sounds  of  weeping  and  wailing  that  the 
boy-prince,  who  had  won  so  much  love  and  respect, 
was  carried  to  Westminster  Abbey.  There,  close  to  him, 
was  laid  more  than  forty  years  later,  his  dearest  sister, 
Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia,  who,  after  a sadly  ad- 
venturous life,  spent  her  last  few  years  peacefully  in 
London,  cared  for  and  watched  over  by  Lord  Craven, 
whose  devotion  to  her  had  been  lifelong,  as  unchanging 
as  it  was  chivalrous. 

Another  brother  and  sister  are  buried  here,  Anne,  the 
little  daughter  of  Charles  I.,  and  Prince  Henry,  his  third 
son.  Anne  died  before  all  those  troubles  began,  which 

L 


1 62  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


saddened  the  childhood  of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
made  them  prisoners  in  the  hands  of  their  father’s 
enemies,  as  she  was  only  four  when  she  fell  into  a fast 
consumption. 

“ I am  not  able,”  she  said  wearily,  the  night  she  died, 
“ to  say  my  long  prayer,  but  I will  say  my  short  one. 
‘ Lighten  mine  eyes,  O Lord,  lest  I sleep  in  death.’  ” 

Little  Henry,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  was  extra- 
ordinarily like  his  uncle  Henry  in  every  way,  old  for 
his  age,  clever,  thoughtful,  “ with  a sweet  method  of 
talking,  and  a judgment  much  beyond  his  years.”  He 
was  taken  from  his  father  almost  before  he  knew  him, 
and  was,  with  his  sister,  also  a Princess  Elizabeth,  kept 
practically  a prisoner  in  London  by  the  Puritan  party. 
But  he  was  not  unkindly  treated,  for  so  engaging 
was  he  both  in  conversation  and  in  manners,  that 
many  of  the  Puritans  thought  he  would  make  a good 
ruler  for  England  if  only  he  were  strictly  brought  up, 
and  kept  away  from  the  influence  of  his  mother  or  the 
court. 

When  the  sentence  of  death  was  passed  on  King 
Charles,  he  asked  to  see  the  two  of  his  children  who 
were  in  London,  and  after  some  delay  the  request  was 
granted.  Awe-struck,  the  little  couple  came  into  his 
presence,  and  the  king  seems  to  have  grasped  what  was 
likely  to  happen.  He  lifted  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  on 
to  his  knee.  “Sweetheart,”  he  said,  “they  will  cut  off  thy 
father’s  head,  and  mark,  child,  perhaps  they  will  make 
thee  a king.  But  you  must  not  be  a king  while  your 
brothers  Charles  and  James  be  living.” 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII.  163 


“ I will  be  torn  in  pieces  first,”  answered  the  white- 
faced child,  with  a determination  which  made  so  great 
an  impression  on  Charles,  that  even  at  that  sad  moment 
he  rejoiced  exceedingly;  while  the  little  Duke,  who  up 
till  now  had  rarely  seen  his  father,  could  carry  away 
as  a last  memory  the  picture  of  one  whose  courage  was 
highest  when  the  need  for  it  was  greatest,  and  who,  if 
he  had  faced  life  weakly,  met  death  bravely. 

With  his  sister  he  was  taken  to  Carisbrooke  Castle,  but 
here  his  existence  was  very  sad,  for  Princess  Elizabeth,  like 
her  sister  Anne,  fell  into  a consumption,  and  not  being 
properly  cared  for,  she  died.  So  lonely  was  he  now, 
that  those  who  had  the  charge  of  him,  still  nursing 
the  idea  that  one  day  he  might  become  king,  sent  him 
abroad  to  Leyden,  with  a tutor,  and  here  he  won  for 
himself  the  pleasant  reputation  of  being  “a  most  com- 
plete gentleman  and  rarely  accomplished.” 

With  the  Restoration  Henry  gladly  returned  to  Eng- 
land, and  at  once  begged  his  brother  to  find  him  some 
work  to  do,  as  “ he  could  not  bear  an  idle  life.”  So  he  was 
made  Lord  Treasurer.  He  proved  himself  to  be  a good 
man  of  business,  while  in  his  leisure  hours  he  gathered 
round  him  men  of  letters  and  learning,  and  soon  became 
as  popular  in  London  as  he  had  been  in  Leyden.  Then 
a sudden  attack  of  smallpox  killed  him,  and  once  again 
a funeral  procession  wended  its  way  to  Westminster 
amid  signs  of  very  real  sorrow.  For  his  fair  life  had 
won  him  many  friends  and  never  an  enemy. 

Of  Prince  Rupert,  who  was  buried  in  this  vault,  that 
gallant  soldier  in  the  Royalist  cause,  more  in  another 


1 64  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


chapter,  and  this  one  shall  end  with  a few  words  about  the 
luckless  “ Lady  Arabella  Stuart.”  She  was  a cousin  to 
James  I.,  as  her  father’s  brother  was  the  Earl  of  Darnley 
who  had  married  Mary  Queen  of  Scots ; but  besides  this 
she  was  of  royal  birth,  and  her  grandmother,  the  Coun- 
tess of  Lennox,  whose  tomb  you  will  find  close  by, 
claimed,  as  you  will  see  inscribed  thereon,  to  have  “ to 
her  great  - grandfather  Edward  IV.,  to  her  grandfather 
Henry  VII.,  to  her  uncle  Henry  VIII.,  to  her  grandchild 
James  VI.  and  I.”  Arabella’s  father  had  committed 
the  unpardonable  offence  of  marrying  without  Queen 
Elizabeth’s  permission  Elizabeth  Cavendish,  the  daughter 
of  the  celebrated  Bess  of  Hardwick,  and  for  so  doing 
the  young  couple  were  promptly  sent  to  the  Tower,  in 
company  with  both  the  mothers-in-law,  one  of  whom, 
the  Countess  of  Lennox,  had  already  twice  been  im- 
prisoned for  matters  of  love  — an  early  attachment  of 
her  own  to  Thomas  Howard,  and  the  marriage  of  her 
elder  son  to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  young  Earl 
of  Lennox  died  very  soon  after  his  marriage,  and 
Elizabeth  relented  so  far  as  to  allow  yearly  £400  a 
year  to  his  widow  and  £200  to  his  little  daughter 
Arabella. 

When  she  was  twelve,  Arabella  was  sent  for  by  the 
queen  to  London,  and  being  very  handsome  as  well  as 
clever,  she  soon  began  to  attract  attention.  The  Roman 
Catholic  party,  always  on  the  look-out  for  a weapon  to 
use  against  the  crown,  turned  their  attentions  to  her, 
and  her  position  became  a dangerous  one,  though  she 
herself  was  entirely  loyal  and  very  prudent.  The  great 


IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  HENRY  VII.  165 


Lord  Burleigh,  however,  was  always  her  good  friend, 
and  when  James  came  to  the  throne,  he  gave  him  a 
wise  hint  to  “ deal  tenderly  with  this  high-spirited  and 
fascinating  young  lady.”  James  took  his  advice,  and 
Arabella  lived  at  his  court,  nominally  as  the  governess 
of  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  but  actually  as  if  she  herself 
had  been  a daughter.  She  was  a favourite  with  all, 
especially  with  Henry  Prince  of  Wales,  for  she  was  highly 
educated  and  a most  delightful  companion.  But  though 
she  had  many  lovers,  she  would  look  at  none  of  them, 
declaring  “ she  had  no  mind  for  marriage.”  However,  un- 
fortunately for  her,  she  lost  her  heart  to  William  Seymour, 
whom  she  married  in  spite  of  the  disapproval  of  James. 
And  then  began  her  troubles,  for  Seymour  was  utterly 
unworthy  of  her,  and  had  only  married  her  to  advance 
his  own  position.  When  he  was  put  into  the  Tower, 
and  his  wife  was  kept  as  a prisoner  at  Lambeth,  his  only 
idea  was  to  make  good  his  own  escape,  leaving  Arabella 
to  her  fate  ; whilst  she,  still  believing  in  him,  risked 
everything  to  set  him  free.  It  was  only  when  she  found 
that  he  had  fled  to  Ostend  without  her  that  the  full 
force  of  her  sorrows  overwhelmed  her. 

She  had  hardly  a friend,  for  even  Prince  Henry 
seems  to  have  sided  for  once  with  his  father,  and  greatest 
of  all  was  the  bitterness  of  realising  that  her  husband 
cared  nothing  for  her.  He  did  not  even  write  to  her, 
lest  in  so  doing  he  might  endanger  his  own  safety. 

She  was  sent  to  the  Tower,  where  first  her  health, 
then  her  mind  gave  way,  and  she  became  as  a little 
child,  singing  nursery  songs,  prattling  of  childish  things. 


1 66  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Death  was  a merciful  release.  Secretly,  by  dead 
of  night,  she  was  taken  from  the  Tower  to  the  Abbey 
on  a barge,  and  buried  without  any  ceremony  in  the 
vault  under  the  tomb  of  her  aunt.  She  had  often 
described  herself  as  the  “ most  sorrowful  creature  living,” 
and,  indeed,  I think  that  under  this  tomb  in  Henry  VII.’s 
chapel  lie  three  royal  women  of  the  Stuart  race  whose 
lives  were  all  the  saddest  tragedies,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
Elizabeth  of  Bohemia,  and  the  Lady  Arabella.  “ God 
grant  them  all  a good  ending,”  as  the  old  chroniclers 
were  wont  to  say.  At  least  now,  after  life’s  fitful  fever, 
they  sleep  well  in  the  calm  of  the  old  Abbey. 


CHAPTER  XII 


FROM  THE  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES 

When  James  I.  came  to  the  throne,  Lancelot  Andrewes 
was  Dean  of  Westminster,  and  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  care  of  the  school,  which,  under  Elizabeth’s  endow- 
ments, was  now  prospering  greatly.  He  had  this  ex- 
cellent reputation,  “ that  all  the  places  where  he  had 
preferment  were  better  for  it,”  and  it  is  certain  that 
either  he  must  have  been  a remarkable  master  or  the 
Westminster  boys  must  have  been  models  of  their  kind, 
for  this  is  how  Hacket,  once  his  pupil,  rapturously 
describes  him  : — 

“ Who  could  come  near  the  shrine  of  such  a saint  and 
not  offer  up  a few  paeans  of  glory  on  it  ? Or  how  durst 
I omit  it  ? For  he  it  was  that  first  planted  me  in  my 
tender  studies  and  watered  them  continually  with  his 
bounty.  . . . He  did  often  supply  the  place  of  head-master 
and  usher  for  the  space  of  an  whole  week  together,  and 
gave  us  not  an  hour  of  loitering  time  from  morning  till 
night.  He  never  walked  to  Chiswick  for  his  recreation 
without  a brace  of  this  young  fry,  and  in  that  way- 
faring leisure  had  a singular  dexterity  to  fill  those 
narrow  vessels  with  a funnel.  And  what  was  the 
greatest  burden  of  his  toil,  sometimes  twice  in  the 

167 


1 68  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


week,  sometimes  oftener,  he  sent  for  the  uppermost 
scholars  to  his  lodgings  at  night  and  kept  them  with 
him  from  eight  to  eleven,  unfolding  to  them  the  best 
rudiments  of  the  Greek  tongue  and  the  elements  of 
Hebrew  grammar.  And  all  this  he  did  to  boys  without 
any  compulsion  or  correction  ; nay,  I never  heard  him 
to  utter  so  much  as  a word  of  austerity.” 

Altogether  Andrewes  was  a man  of  great  influence 
and  renown  both  as  a scholar  and  a preacher,  so  he  was 
promoted  to  a bishopric  after  a short  time,  and  was 
succeeded  by  Richard  Neile,  who  had  himself  been  a 
boy  of  Westminster  School,  and  who,  therefore,  in  his 
turn  carefully  fostered  its  growth.  He  too  became  a 
bishop  in  three  years,  and  of  the  two  deans  who  followed 
him,  Montague  and  Tounson,  we  know  little  except  that 
the  one  was  “ a person  of  wit  and  entertaining  conver- 
sation,” and  the  other  “ one  of  a graceful  presence  and 
an  excellent  preacher,  who  left  a widow  and  fifteen 
children  unprovided  for.” 

It  is  Hacket  who  again  gives  us  an  amusing  picture 
of  the  excitement  among  all  the  divines  when  it  became 
known  that  Tounson  was  to  be  Bishop  of  Salisbury  and 
that  the  Deanery  of  Westminster  was  vacant. 

“ It  was  a fortunate  seat,”  he  says,  “ near  the  Court. 
Like  the  office  over  the  king  of  Persia’s  garden  at 
Babylon,  stored  with  the  most  delicious  fruits.  He 
that  was  trusted  with  the  garden  was  the  Lord  of 
the  Palace.” 

Among  those  who  earnestly  desired  the  post  was 
John  Williams,  one  of  the  chaplains  to  James  I., 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  169 


and  in  these  words  he  applied  for  it  through  Lord 
Burleigh : — 

My  most  noble  Lord, — I am  an  humble  suitor,  first 
to  be  acknowledged  your  servant,  and  then  that  I may 
with  your  happy  hand  be  transplanted  to  Westminster 
if  the  Deanery  shall  still  prove  vacant.  I trouble  not 
your  Honour  for  profit,  but  for  convenience,  for  being 
unmarried  and  inclining  so  to  continue,  I do  find  that 
Westminster  is  fitter  by  much  for  that  disposition.  If 
your  Honour  be  not  bent  upon  an  ancient  servitor,  I 
beseech  you  to  think  on  me.” 

Fortunately  for  Westminster  he  obtained  his  heart’s 
desire,  and  in  1620  began  his  useful  rule.  He  took  for 
his  exemplars  Abbot  Islip  and  Dean  Andrewes,  imitating 
the  first  by  carefully  restoring  the  many  parts  of  the 
Abbey  which  through  neglect  were  falling  in  ruins,  and 
the  second  by  encouraging  the  school.  Then,  “ that 
God  might  be  praised  with  a cheerful  noise  in  His 
sanctuary,”  he  obtained,  as  Hacket  tells  us,  “ the  sweetest 
music  both  for  the  organ  and  for  voices  of  all  parts 
that  was  ever  heard  in  an  English  quire ; ” and  in 
Jerusalem  Chamber  he  gave  many  entertainments  with 
music,  which  “ the  most  famous  masters  of  this  delight- 
ful faculty  frequented.”  To  enlarge  the  boundaries  of 
learning  he  turned  one  of  the  deserted  rooms  in  the 
cloisters,  of  old  used  by  the  monks,  into  a library, 
bought  out  of  his  own  means  a large  number  of 
books  from  a certain  Mr.  Baker  of  Highgate,  and  was 
so  public-spirited  that  he  allowed  men  of  learning 


170  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


from  all  parts  of  London  to  have  access  to  those  precious 
works. 

He  was  in  great  favour  with  James,  who  made  him 
Lord  Keeper  of  the  Seal  and  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  allow- 
ing him  to  hold  Westminster  at  the  same  time,  and 
though  his  enemies  had  much  to  say  on  the  subject 
of  his  holding  so  many  offices,  it  must  be  said  in  jus- 
tice that  he  got  through  an  amazing  amount  of  work. 
Under  him  it  seemed  as  if  some  of  the  splendid  hos- 
pitalities which  had  ceased  since  the  days  when  the 
Abbots  kept  open  house  were  to  be  revived,  for  Dean 
Williams  entertained  in  Jerusalem  Chamber  the  French 
ambassadors  who  came  over  to  arrange  for  the  marriage 
between  Prince  Charles  and  Princess  Henriette. 

Before  the  feast  he  led  them  into  the  Abbey,  which 
was  “ stuck  with  flambeaux  everywhere  that  they  might 
cast  their  eyes  upon  the  stateliness  of  the  church,”  while 
“ the  best  finger  of  the  age,  Dr.  Orlando  Gibbons,” 
played  the  organ  for  their  entertainment. 

You  will  see  a memorial  of  this  banquet  in  the 
carvings  over  the  mantelpiece  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber, 
for  on  one  side  is  Charles  I.  and  on  the  other  side  his 
French  bride. 

But  with  the  death  of  James  I.,  Lord  Keeper,  Bishop 
and  Dean  Williams  fell  upon  evil  days,  for  he  was  dis- 
liked by  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Laud,  who  en- 
tirely influenced  the  king,  and  was  not  even  allowed 
to  officiate  on  the  coronation  day. 

Under  the  Commonwealth  the  Abbey  fared  badly,  for 
with  a fanatical  horror  of  anything  that  reminded  them 


From  photo  S.  B.  Bolas  &■  Co. 


Jerusalem  Chamber. 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  171 


of  royalty  or  of  Rome,  the  Parliamentarians  had  not  the 
smallest  regard  for  it,  and  delighted  in  showing  their 
contempt  for  its  past.  How  far  the  soldiers  were 
allowed  to  desecrate  its  walls  and  its  altars  it  is  difficult 
to  clearly  ascertain,  and  we  may  fairly  believe  that  the 
story  of  how  they  pulled  down  the  organ,  pawned  the 
pipes  for  ale,  and  played  boisterous  games  up  and  down 
the  church  “ to  show  their  Christian  liberty,”  is  a great 
exaggeration,  even  if  any  such  thing  took  place  at  all. 
Certainly  the  altar  in  Henry  VII.’s  chapel,  under  which 
lay  buried  Edward  VI.,  was  destroyed,  the  copes  and 
vestments  were  sold,  and  many  windows  and  monu- 
ments supposed  to  teach  lessons  of  superstition  and 
idolatry  were  demolished.  No  dean  was  appointed. 
The  church  being  put  under  a Parliamentary  Com- 
mittee, Presbyterian  preachers  conducted  morning  exer- 
cises, which  took  the  place  of  the  daily  services,  and 
Bradshaw,  the  President  of  the  court  which  tried  and 
condemned  to  death  Charles  I.,  settled  himself  into  the 
deserted  deanery.  A strange  sight  indeed  it  must  have 
been  to  those  who  noted  it  to  watch  this  man  going 
backwards  and  forwards  between  Abbot  Islip’s  house 
and  the  Hall  of  Westminster  Palace,  holding  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  the  life  of  the  king  of  England ! 

Westminster  School,  which,  under  Elizabeth,  had  been 
set  on  its  new  and  enlarged  footing,  and  since  then 
had  vigorously  expanded  under  the  various  head -masters, 
alone  continued  to  flourish.  Its  scholars  naturally  were 
closely  connected  with  the  life  that  centred  round  West- 
minster : they  listened  to  the  debates  of  Parliament, 


172  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


they  flocked  to  hear  the  trials  in  Westminster  Hall, 
they  attended  the  services  in  the  Abbey.  Their  feelings 
ran  high  during  the  Civil  War.  Pvm,  Cromwell,  and 
Bradshaw  they  hated ; the  execution  of  Charles  roused 
their  deepest  indignation,  and  they  listened  in  awed 
horror  as  Bushby,  their  master,  read  solemnly  the  prayer 
for  the  king  at  the  very  moment  when  the  scaffold  was 
being  erected  at  Whitehall.  It  was  the  strong  personality 
of  Bushby  and  his  tactful  management  which  saved  the 
school  from  being  seriously  interfered  with  at  the  hands 
of  the  all-powerful  Parliament,  so  that  for  fifty-five  years 
this  model  for  head-masters  “ ruled  with  his  rod  and  his 
iron  will,  and  successfully  piloted  this  bark  through  very 
stormy  seas.”  He  was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  energy, 
and  he  was  more  anxious  that  his  pupils  should  become 
men  of  action  and  character  than  accomplished  scholars. 
His  monument,  which  is  near  the  Poets’  Corner,  shows 
him,  in  the  words  of  the  inscription,  “ such  as  he 
appeared  to  human  eyes ; ” and  the  words  which  follow 
tell  how  he  “ sowed  a plenteous  harvest  of  ingenious 
men  ; discovered,  managed,  and  improved  the  natural 
genius  in  every  one ; formed  and  nourished  the  minds  of 
youths,  and  gave  to  the  school  of  Westminster  the  fame 
of  which  it  boasts.” 

But  the  Abbey  was  a national  institution,  too  firmly 
builded  on  the  rocks  to  be  more  than  shaken  by  the 
passing  storms.  It  had  weathered  the  earthquake  of 
the  Reformation,  it  had  survived  the  tempests  of  the 
Revolution.  With  the  Restoration  came  the  calm,  and 
quietly  the  old  life  was  resumed.  I have  but  little 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  173 


more  to  tell  you  of  the  inner  story  of  the  Abbey,  nor 
from  this  time  forward  do  kings  and  queens  play  any 
very  important  part  in  its  story.  It  is  the  tombs  and 
monuments  which  now  begin,  more  closely  even  than 
before,  to  cement  the  tie  between  Westminster  and  the 
pages  of  English  history.  So  I will  only  tell  you  in 
a few  words  how  Dean  Sprat  busied  himself  with  the 
restoration  of  the  great  buildings,  the  architect  being  Sir 
Christopher  Wren,  who,  as  you  know,  designed  St.  Paul’s 
Cathedral,  and  rebuilt  so  many  of  the  old  London 
churches  which  the  Great  Fire  had  destroyed,  and  how 
Dean  Atterbury  carried  on  the  work,  including  the  rebuild- 
ing of  the  great  dormitory,  until  his  devotion  to  the  Stuart 
cause  and  his  opposition  to  George  I.  caused  him  to  be  sent 
first  to  the  Tower,  and  afterwards  as  an  exile  to  France. 
Atterbury  loved  well  his  Abbey,  and  his  last  request 
was  that  he  might  walk  through  it  once  more,  especially 
to  see  the  glass  which  was  his  own  gift  to  it,  and  which 
still  exists  in  the  beautiful  rose  window  over  the  north 
door.  But  the  sad  thing  about  these  so-called  restora- 
tions is  that  so  much  of  the  matchless  old  work  was 
destroyed,  and  nobody  seemed  in  the  least  concerned  at 
this.  That  was  an  age  when  the  glories  of  mediaeval 
architecture  appear  to  have  lost  all  their  charm  in  men’s 
eyes,  when  the  love  of  beautiful  things  was  at  its  lowest 
ebb.  The  Westminster  boys  played  their  games  in  the 
chapels,  and  were  allowed  to  skip  from  tomb  to  tomb  in 
the  Confessor’s  shrine ; hideous  monuments  were  erected 
and  crowded  together,  nothing  old  was  reverenced,  and 
we  can  only  be  thankful  that  more  was  not  destroyed  or 


174  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


hopelessly  ruined.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  this  apparent 
indifference,  here  and  there  were  men  who  found  them- 
selves stirred  when  they  came  within  those  walls  as  they 
were  stirred  nowhere  else,  so  that  many  a writer,  including 
Addison,  Steele,  and  Goldsmith,  and  earlier  still,  John 
Milton,  has  paid  homage,  even  in  those  unimaginative 
days,  to  that  fair  place,  “ so  far  exceeding  human  ex- 
cellence that  a man  would  think  it  was  knit  together 
by  the  fingers  of  angels.” 

One  more  dean  I must  tell  you  of,  and  that  is  Dean 
Stanley,  who,  with  his  wife,  lies  in  the  south  aisle  of 
Henry  VII.’s  Chapel.  For  it  was  when  he  was  appointed 
to  Westminster  in  1864  that  once  again  the  Abbey 
became  something  more  than  a great  memory  of  former 
days.  First  of  all  he  unfolded  the  storied  past,  clearing 
up  many  a mystery,  setting  right  many  an  error,  and 
then,  impelled  by  a deep  reverence  for  all  its  great 
associations,  he  consistently  carried  on  its  history.  In 
every  trace  of  his  work  we  find  this  same  wise  spirit  of 
sympathy  and  understanding.  To  him  the  Abbey  was 
our  greatest  national  treasure ; his  ideal  was,  not  only 
so  to  keep  it,  but  to  make  it  a living  influence  among  all 
English-speaking  people.  And  thanks  in  no  small  de- 
gree to  him,  Westminster  Abbey  is  to-day  a very  magnet 
in  the  heart  of  the  empire,  to  which  high  and  low,  rich 
and  poor,  learned  and  ignorant  are  drawn  from  far  and 
near,  to  drink  in,  as  they  are  able,  its  memories  and  its 
beauties,  to  do  homage  to  those- great  souls  whom  it  honours, 
there  to  read  as  from  a book  stories  of  Englishmen  who, 
whether  as  kings  or  statesmen,  abbots  or  deans,  nobles 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  175 


or  commoners,  poets  or  patriots,  added  at  least  some 
stones  to  that  other  building,  not  fashioned  by  bauds 
alone,  which  grew  up  side  by  side  with  Edward’s  church, 
and  thus  became  the  builders  of  our  nation. 

But  we  have  gone  forward  quickly,  and  I must  take 
you  back  for  a moment  to  Henry  VII.’s  Chapel,  where 
still  after  the  Restoration  some  royal  funerals  took  place. 
With  the  outburst  of  loyal  feeling,  it  was  felt  by  many 
that  Charles  I.,  who  had  been  buried  at  Windsor,  ought 
to  be  brought  here,  and  Christopher  Wren  was  com- 
manded to  prepare  a costly  monument.  But  nothing 
further  was  done  in  the  matter.  Charles  II.  was  buried 
at  midnight  most  unceremoniously,  close  to  the  monu- 
ment of  General  Monk,  and  one  who  was  probably 
present  adds,  by  way  of  comment,  “ he  was  soon 
forgotten.”  Ten  children  of  James  II.  were  laid  in 
the  spacious  vault  under  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  monu- 
ment, but  he  himself,  having  fled  from  his  kingdom, 
died  abroad  and  was  buried  in  Paris.  William  and 
Mary,  Queen  Anne  and  her  husband,  Prince  George  of 
Denmark,  all  lie  near  Charles  II.,  and  the  seventeen 
children  of  Anne  are  just  behind  in  what  is  really  the 
Children’s  Yault.  One  of  these  children,  Prince  William 
Henry,  another  Duke  of  Gloucester,  though  he  only  lived 
to  be  eleven,  was  such  a quaint  little  boy  that  his  tutor 
wrote  a biography  of  him.  He  was  always  very  delicate, 
but  though  his  body  was  weak  his  mind  was  precocious 
and  his  spirits  were  unfailingly  high.  From  the  time 
he  was  two  his  craze  was  for  soldiers,  and  he  had  a 
company  of  ninety  boys  from  Kensington  for  his  body- 


176  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


guard,  whom  he  drilled  and  ruled  by  martial  law.  These 
boys  he  called  his  horse-guards,  and  they  wore  red 
grenadiers’  caps  and  carried  wooden  swords  and  muskets ; 
but,  however  much  they  may  have  pleased  the  little 
prince,  who  lived  at  Camden  House,  they  were  somewhat 
of  a terror  to  the  people  of  Kensington,  as,  “ presuming 
on  being  soldiers,  they  were  very  rude  and  challenged 
men  in  the  streets,  which  caused  complaints.”  This 
tutor  of  his,  Jenkin  Lewis,  who  entered  thoroughly  into 
the  spirit  of  the  little  Duke,  gives  a delightful  account 
of  a visit  paid  to  him  by  his  uncle,  the  grave  William 
III.,  who  appears  to  have  been  very  fond  of  him. 

Altogether  the  Duke  must  have  been  a charming  little 
boy,  plucky,  generous,  and  remarkably  bright.  If  he 
fell  down  and  hurt  himself,  he  would  say,  “ A bullet 
in  the  war  had  grazed  me,”  and  though,  to  please  the 
queen,  he  learnt  dancing  from  an  old  Frenchman,  he 
confided  to  his  tutor  that  the  only  thing  he  loved  in 
that  way  was  the  English  march  to  a drum. 

Greatly  to  his  joy  the  king  decided  to  make  him  a 
Knight  of  the  Garter  when  he  was  only  six  years  old, 
and  to  add  to  the  honour  William  tied  on  the  Garter 
himself. 

“ Now,”  said  the  boy  proudly,  “ if  I fight  any  more 
battles  I shall  give  harder  blows  than  ever.” 

He  was  as  quick  and  interested  at  his  lessons  as  he 
was  at  soldiering,  and  we  hear  of  his  making  amazing 
progress  under  the  Bishop  of  Marlborough  in  the  history 
of  the  Bible,  geography,  constitutional  history,  and  many 
other  subjects,  while  his  tutor  had  taught  him  “the 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  177 


terms  of  fortification  and  navigation,  the  different  parts 
of  a ship  of  war,  and  stories  about  Caesar,  Alexander, 
Pompey,  Hannibal,  and  Scipio.  It  was  his  tutor  who 
put  into  verse,  and  persuaded  Mr.  Church,  one  of  the 
gentlemen  of  Westminster  Abbey,  to  set  to  music,  the 
Duke’s  words  of  command  to  his  boys,  which  ran  thus  : — 


“ Hark,  hark  ! the  hostile  drum  alarms, 

Let  ours  too  heat,  and  call  to  arms  ; 

Prepare,  my  boys,  to  meet  the  foe, 

Let  every  breast  with  valour  glow. 

Soon  conquest  shall  our  arms  decide, 

And  Britain’s  sons  in  triumph  ride. 

In  order  charge  your  daring  band, 

Attentive  to  your  chief’s  command. 

Discharge  your  volleys,  fire  away  ; 

They  yield,  my  lads,  we  gain  the  day. 

March  on,  pursue  to  yonder  town  ; 

No  ambush  fear,  the  day’s  our  own. 

Yet  from  your  hearts  let  mercy  flow, 

And  nobly  spare  the  captive  foe  ! ” 

When  in  1696  a plot  formed  against  William  III. 
was  discovered,  the  Duke  determined  not  to  be  behind 
the  Houses  of  Parliament,  who  offered  their  loyal 
addresses  to  the  king,  so  he  drew  up  a little  address 
of  his  own  in  these  words,  which  was  signed  by  him- 
self and  all  his  boys : “ We,  your  Majesty’s  faithful 
subjects,  will  stand  by  you  as  long  as  we  have  a drop 
of  blood.” 

On  the  24th  July  1700  he  was  eleven  and  had  a 
birthday  party,  which  of  course  meant  a sham  fight 
among  his  boys;  and  when  on  the  next  morning  he 
complained  of  feeling  ill,  every  one  naturally  thought 

M 


178  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


be  was  only  over-tired  or  excited.  But  a bad  throat 
and  high  fever  soon  showed  that  there  was  serious 
mischief,  and  within  a week  he  died.  “ To  the  inex- 
pressible grief,”  wrote  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  “ of  all 
good  men  who  were  well-wishers  to  the  Protestant 
religion  and  lovers  of  their  country.” 

George  II.  was  the  last  king  to  be  buried  in  the 
Abbey,  and  he  was  laid  in  the  same  stone  coffin  as 
his  wife,  Queen  Caroline.  You  will  find  the  grave- 
stones in  the  nave  of  Henry  VII. ’s  Chapel,  and  near 
to  it  are  buried  his  two  daughters,  his  son  Frederick, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  several  grandchildren.  Horace 
Walpole,  the  son  of  Robert  Walpole,  who  had  for 
twenty-one  years  been  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  king, 
thus  describes  to  us  the  last  royal  funeral  at  West- 
minster : — 

“ The  procession  through  a line  of  foot-guards,  every 
seventh  man  bearing  a torch,  the  horse-guards  lining 
the  outside,  their  officers  with  drawn  swords  and  crape 
sashes,  the  drums  muffled,  the  fifes,  the  bells  tolling, 
and  the  minute  guns,  all  this  was  very  solemn.  But 
the  charm  was  the  entrance  to  the  Abbey,  where  we 
were  received  by  the  Dean  and  Chapter  in  rich  robes, 
the  choir  and  almsmen  bearing  torches,  the  whole  Abbey 
so  illuminated  that  one  saw  it  to  greater  advantage  than 
by  day.  When  we  came  to  the  Chapel  of  Henry  VII., 
all  solemnity  and  decorum  ceased,  no  order  was  observed, 
people  sat  or  stood  where  they  would  or  could ; the 
Yeomen  of  the  Guard  were  crying  out  for  help,  oppressed 
by  the  immense  weight  of  the  coffin.  The  Bishop  read 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  179 


sadly  and  blundered  in  the  prayers,  and  the  anthem, 
besides  being  immeasurably  tedious,  would  have  served 
as  well  for  a wedding.  . . . The  Duke  of  Newcastle 
fell  into  a fit  of  crying  the  moment  we  came  into 
the  chapel  and  flung  himself  back  in  a stall,  the  Arch- 
bishop towering  over  him  with  a smelling-bottle ; but 
in  two  minutes  his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  his  hypo- 
crisy, and  be  ran  about  the  chapel  with  his  glass  to 
spy  who  was  or  was  not  there.  Then  returned  his  fear 
of  getting  cold,  and  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  who  felt 
himself  weighed  down,  on  turning  round  found  it  was 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  standing  upon  his  train  to  avoid 
the  chill  of  the  marble.” 

But  though  Westminster  was  no  longer  to  be  the 
church  of  the  royal  tombs,  there  was  one  ceremony 
she  was  still  to  claim  undisputed  as  her  own  peculiar 
right.  A Coronation  meant  the  Abbey ; no  other  place 
was  ever  dreamt  of.  Charles  II.  here  commenced  his 
reign  with  great  glory.  James  II.  characteristically 
grudged  spending  any  money  excepting  .£100,000  for 
the  queen’s  dress  and  trinkets.  William  and  Mary 
were  crowned  together,  for  Mary  refused  to  be  queen 
unless  her  husband  became  king  with  her,  and  it  is 
for  this  joint-coronation  that  the  second  chair  of  state 
was  made,  which  stands  with  the  old  Coronation  Chair 
in  the  Confessor’s  Chapel.  The  members  of  the  House 
of  Commons  were  present  and  “ hummed  applause  at 
the  eloquent  ending  to  Bishop  Burnet’s  sermon,  in 
which  he  prayed  God  “ to  bless  the  royal  pair  with 
long  life  and  love,  with  obedient  subjects,  wise  counsel- 


i8o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


lors,  faithful  allies,  gallant  fleets  and  armies,  and 
finally  with  crowns  more  glorious  and  lasting  than 
those  which  glittered  on  the  altar  of  the  Abbey.” 

Queen  Anne,  fat,  gouty,  and  childless,  found  the  day 
a weary  one.  Unlike  her  sister  Mary,  she  was  crowned 
queen  in  her  own  right,  and  her  husband  was  the  first 
of  the  nobles  to  do  her  homage. 

When  George  I.  was  crowned  many  difficulties  had 
to  be  overcome,  for  everything  had  to  be  explained  to 
the  king,  who  knew  no  English,  by  ministers  who 
stumbled  badly  over  their  German.  But  George  II. 
had  learnt  the  language  of  his  people,  and  liking  great 
ceremonies  as  much  as  his  father  had  disliked  them, 
his  coronation  day  was  celebrated  in  great  state.  Queen 
Caroline  must  have  been  ablaze  with  jewels,  for  besides 
wearing  all  her  own,  she  had  borrowed  what  pearls  she 
could  from  the  ladies  of  quality,  and  had  hired  all 
manner  of  diamonds  from  the  Jews  and  jewellers. 
George  IV.  spent  more  money  when  he  was  crowned 
king  than  any  other  of  his  race,  but  the  day  was  not 
without  a very  painful  scene,  as  he  refused  to  prepare 
any  place  for  his  wife,  Queen  Caroline,  and  she  indig- 
nantly tried  in  vain  to  insist  on  her  rights  and  to  force 
her  way  into  the  Abbey.  She  failed,  and  her  failure 
so  broke  her  spirits  that  she  fell  ill,  and  a few  weeks 
later  she  died. 

William  IV.  was  crowned  at  a critical  moment,  for 
the  country  was  in  a state  of  excitement  concerning 
the  Reform  Bill,  which,  if  passed,  would  give  a vote 
to  a great  number  of  people  who  did  not  possess 


FROM  STUARTS  TO  OUR  OWN  TIMES  1S1 


one,  but  which  was  being  firmly  opposed  by  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  and  a strong  party.  To  avoid  any  risks 
of  riots  or  demonstrations  the  usual  procession  was  left 
out,  even  the  usual  banquet  in  the  old  palace,  while 
everything  was  as  simple  and  private  as  possible.  But 
seven  years  later  those  old  grey  walls  looked  down  on 
a Coronation  Day  which  brought  untold  blessings  to 
England.  On  June  28,  1838,  Princess  Victoria,  a 
slender  girl  in  the  first  freshness  of  her  youth,  was 
publicly  recognised  undoubted  queen  of  the  realm,  and 
took  her  solemn  oath  in  the  sight  of  the  people  to 
perform  and  keep  the  promises  demanded  of  her  by 
the  Archbishop.  Here  in  the  Sanctuary  she  was 
anointed ; here  the  spurs  and  the  sword  of  state  were 
presented  to  her,  and  then  laid  on  the  altar ; here  the 
orb  was  placed  in  her  hands  and  the  royal  robe  about 
her  shoulders ; here  the  ring,  the  sceptre,  the  rod  were 
delivered  to  her ; here  was  the  crown  of  pure  gold 
set  on  her  head,  and  the  Bible,  the  royal  law,  placed 
in  her  hands ; here  she  ascended  the  throne,  while  her 
nobles  did  her  homage ; here,  taking  off  her  crown, 
she  received  the  Holy  Communion,  and  then  passed  on 
into  the  Confessor’s  Chapel  in  accordance  with  the  time- 
honoured  usage. 

Vastly  solemn  indeed  was  the  ceremony,  calling  to 
mind  as  it  did  the  long  procession  of  kings  and  queens 
who,  without  exception  in  that  place,  almost  in  those 
identical  words,  had  accepted  the  great  trust  to  which 
they  had  been  called.  Some  had  been  faithful ; some, 
through  weakness  or  through  wilful  wrong-doing,  had 


1 82  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


violated  the  vow.  The  strongest  men  had  sometimes 
wavered,  the  bravest  men  had  faltered  before  their  task. 
But  Queen  Victoria  never  failed  her  people.  Through 
weal  and  woe,  through  storm  and  sunshine,  through 
good  and  evil  days,  she  watched  over  them  and  guarded 
their  interests.  She  ruled  over  their  hearts  at  home 
and  throughout  those  vaster  dominions  beyond  the  seas, 
she  bound  them  to  her  with  bonds  of  loyal  devotion,  so 
that  when,  in  the  dim  light  of  a winter’s  day  in 
February  1901,  the  Abbey  was  filled  with  a vast 
crowd  of  those  who  were  there  to  pay  their  last  tribute 
to  her  memory,  their  universal  sorrow  was  no  mere 
formality,  but  was  in  harmony  with  the  sense  of 
personal  loss  which  was  felt  by  all  who  had  owned 
her  as  their  Sovereign  Lady. 


PART  II 


AMONG  THE  MONUMENTS 


V 


I 


Lely . 


11  ’alker  & Cockerell. 


Prince  Rupert. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS  IN  THE  ABBEY 

By  a strange  irony  of  fate,  the  royal  chapel  of  the  Tudors 
was  destined  to  be,  at  least  for  awhile,  the  burying-place 
of  many  Parliamentary  leaders,  and  perhaps  stranger  still 
it  is  to  realise  how  Roundhead  and  Cavalier,  disgraced 
minister  and  triumphant  reformer,  came  at  last  to  the 
old  Abbey,  which  opened  its  arms  to  receive  them,  con- 
demning no  man,  but  committing  all  unto  the  care  of 
Him  who  judgeth  with  righteous  judgment.  The  Duke 
of  Buckingham  and  Pym,  Cromwell  and  Prince  Rupert, 
Admiral  Blake,  Clarendon  the  historian  of  the  great 
rebellion,  Essex  and  General  Monk,  all  were  buried 
within  a few  feet  of  each  other,  and  their  names  are 
still  engraved  on  Abbey  stones,  though  some  of  them 
sleep  there  no  more. 

These  men,  in  their  different  ways,  stood  in  the  fore- 
front of  that  hard-fought  Revolution,  and  as  I want 
Westminster  to  be  something  more  to  you  than  a place 
of  names  and  monuments,  I will  try  to  tell  you  enough 
of  each  one  for  you  to  be  able  to  fit  them  into  their 
proper  places  in  the  history  of  those  stormy  days. 

We  will  begin  with  Buckingham,  who,  as  young 
George  Villiers,  was  brought  up  to  be  a courtier,  and 


1 86  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


taught  only  such  accomplishments  as  would  fit  him  for 
that  part.  He  was  an  apt  pupil,  graceful,  witty,  ver- 
satile, full  of  charm,  and  from  the  moment  he  entered  the 
service  of  James  I.  as  cupbearer,  his  upward  career  began. 
He  leapt  from  step  to  step  with  dazzling  rapidity,  and 
the  king  became  a mere  puppet  in  his  hands.  “I  love 
the  Earl  of  Buckingham  more  than  anything  else,”  he 
declared.  “ Whatsoever  he  desireth  must  be  done.” 
For  awhile  Buckingham  did  not  seriously  interfere  with 
politics  ; his  ambition  was  satisfied  with  personal  power 
and  court  influence,  while  his  own  position  concerned 
him  much  more  closely  than  the  affairs  of  the  country. 
But  eventually  he  was  drawn  into  the  vortex,  to  his 
own  undoing,  for  his  brilliancy  was  only  superficial,  his 
wild  schemes  collapsed  one  after  the  other,  while  his 
reckless  extravagance,  coupled  with  his  disastrous  under- 
takings, staggered  the  Parliament,  which  had  for  a brief 
moment  believed  in  him.  However,  Charles,  who  was 
now  king,  implicitly  believed  in  him  through  all  his 
failures,  and  supported  his  exorbitant  demands  for  money 
to  carry  on  his  unpopular  and  unsuccessful  foreign 
policy.  At  last  the  gathering  indignation  burst. 

“ The  Duke  of  Buckingham  is  the  cause  of  all  our 
miseries,”  was  the  deliberate  statement  made  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  followed  by  a long  list  of  charges, 
and  the  determination,  for  the  first  time,  to  hold  a 
minister  responsible  to  Parliament  for  his  actions.  The 
king  was  furious.  “ None  of  my  servants  shall  be 
questioned  by  you,  or  it  shall  be  the  worse  for  you,” 
he  said  scornfully,  and  he  dissolved  Parliament.  But 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


i37 


the  trial  of  Buckingham  was  taken  out  of  their  hands, 
for  shortly  afterwards  he  was  stabbed  to  death  by  a 
certain  Fenton,  a melancholy,  malcontented  gentleman, 
who  declared  that  he  did  so  to  rid  the  country  of  an 
intolerable  tyrant.  He  was  buried  quietly  in  the  Abbey, 
and  the  king  set  up  to  his  memory  the  elaborate  but 
hardly  beautiful  monument  which  you  see.  You  must 
notice,  though,  the  three  figures  of  his  children,  for  one 
of  them,  Francis,  a very  gallant  boy,  “ of  rare  beauty 
and  comeliness,”  fell  fighting  for  the  king  at  Kingston, 
wounded  nine  times,  yet  scorning  to  ask  quarter,  stand- 
ing with  his  back  against  an  oak  tree  till  he  dropped. 

General  Monk,  afterwards  Duke  of  Albemarle,  fought 
on  the  Parliamentary  side,  and  after  the  defeat  of  the 
Royalists  in  England  he  was  with  Cromwell  through  his 
victorious  campaigns  in  Scotland  and  Ireland,  remaining 
behind  as  commander-in-chief  for  Scotland.  But  it  was 
as  a sailor  rather  than  as  a soldier  that  he  made  his 
greatest  reputation,  for  when  the  struggle  began  between 
England  and  the  Dutch  for  the  command  of  the  seas, 
the  Dutch  challenging  the  English  right  to  it,  Monk, 
and  another  Parliamentary  officer,  Blake,  were  appointed 
generals  at  sea,  it  being  thought  that  their  ability  to  lead, 
their  energy  and  their  good  sense,  would  more  than 
compensate  for  their  lack  of  technical  experience.  So  it 
eventually  proved,  and  after  some  close  fighting  Monk 
was  able  to  report  that  the  English  held  the  coast  of 
Holland  as  if  it  were  besieged.  Parliament  rewarded 
Monk  with  a vote  of  thanks,  a medal  and  a chain  worth 
£300,  and  he  assured  them  that  he  had  “no  other 


1 88  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


thought  but  to  defend  the  nation  against  all  enemies, 
whether  by  sea  or  by  land,  as  might  be  entrusted  to 
him.” 

Not  altogether  approving  of  the  arbitrary  way  in 
which  Cromwell  treated  Parliament,  he  determined  to 
keep  clear  of  politics  and  to  remain  a “ plain  fighting 
man.”  But  while  employed  by  the  Protector  he  was  en- 
tirely loyal  to  him,  and  at  once  sent  to  him  a letter  he 
received  from  Charles  II.  suggesting  negotiations.  “ An 
honest,  very  simple-hearted  man,”  was  Cromwell’s  re- 
mark on  him. 

But  with  the  death  of  the  Protector  the  whole  aspect 
of  things  changed.  Monk  had  fully  intended  to  serve 
Richard  Cromwell  as  he  had  served  his  father,  only  it 
became  palpably  evident  that  the  new  Protector  was  not 
in  any  way  capable  of  controlling  the  country  or  the 
army,  and  within  a few  weeks  dissatisfaction  and  dis- 
content were  evident  everywhere — the  pendulum  had 
swung  back,  and  England  cried  for  a king  once  more. 
With  Richard  Cromwell  at  the  head  of  affairs,  Monk  saw 
that  the  days  of  the  Commonwealth  were  numbered. 
“ He  forsook  himself  or  I had  never  faltered  in  my 
allegiance,”  he  explained ; for  Dick  Cromwell  was  as 
anxious  as  any  one  to  be  rid  of  his  office.  Through  his 
brother,  Nicholas  Monk,  a sturdy  Royalist,  afterwards 
made  Bishop  of  Hereford,  Charles  sent  a straightforward 
letter  to  the  general,  judging  rightly  that  plain  words 
were  more  likely  to  take  effect  with  him.  “ If  you  take 
my  interests  to  heart,”  wrote  the  king,  “ I will  leave  the 
way  and  manner  to  you  and  act  as  you  advise  ” 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


189 


For  awhile  Monk  hesitated,  then  he  accepted  the 
situation.  He  met  the  king  at  Dover,  and  served  him 
faithfully  in  whatever  capacity  it  was  desired  of  him, 
assisting  in  the  settlement  of  Scotland,  or  going  to  sea 
with  Prince  Rupert,  or  keeping  order  in  London  during 
those  years  of  panic  when  first  the  plague,  then  the 
Great  Fire  produced  the  wildest  terror  and  confusion. 
He  died  “ like  a Roman  general  and  a soldier,  his 
chamber  door  open  as  if  it  had  been  a tent,  his  officers 
around  him,”  and  England  mourned  an  honest,  duty- 
loving  man,  brave  on  every  point  excepting  where  his 
wife  was  concerned,  and  here  he  frankly  admitted  to  a 
“ terror  of  her  tongue  and  passions.”  The  king,  who  had 
made  him  Duke  of  Albemarle,  was  present  at  his 
funeral,  and  undertook  to  pay  all  the  expenses,  besides 
erecting  a monument  to  him.  But  his  memory  and 
gratitude  were  both  short-lived,  so  that  it  was  left  to 
the  second  Duke  to  see  that  his  father’s  name  and  fame 
were  duly  chronicled  in  the  Abbey,  that  future  genera- 
tions might  know  him  as  “ an  honest  man,  who  served 
his  country.” 

Admiral  Blake,  buried  in  the  Cromwell  vault,  first 
went  to  sea  to  settle  Prince  Rupert,  who  with  his  tiny 
fleet  was  a terror  to  English  ships,  and  so  successful  was 
he,  that  at  last  Rupert  was  thankful  to  reach  France  in 
safety  with  his  one  remaining  vessel.  For  reward, 
Parliament  gave  him  a place  in  the  council  of  state, 
and  he  devoted  himself  to  making  the  navy  more 
efficient,  as  he  felt  sure  a war  at  sea  with  the  Dutch 
was  imminent.  He  desired  to  make  his  sailors  men 


190  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


of  the  same  stamp  as  Cromwell’s  famous  Ironsides, 
but  though  he  was  a great  disciplinarian  he  was  very 
popular,  and  his  men  fought  for  him  with  a will.  The 
war  began  with  a victory  for  Blake,  which,  far  from 
disheartening  the  Dutch,  put  them  on  their  mettle,  and 
off  Dungeness  they  compelled  the  English  admiral  to 
retreat  on  Dover,  after  a fierce  struggle.  So  elated  was 
Van  Tromp  at  this  advantage,  that  as  he  passed  along 
the  Channel  he  had  a broom  fastened  to  the  masthead  of 
his  ship  to  show  how  he  meant  to  sweep  the  English 
from  the  seas.  Blake  was  sorely  grieved  at  his  failure, 
and  for  a moment  gave  way  to  a depression  which  led 
him  to  entreat  Parliament  that  he  might  be  discharged 
from  “ an  employment  much  too  great  for  him.”  Then 
his  old  spirit  returned,  and  he  asked  “ for  more  men  to 
fight  again.” 

At  the  battle  of  Portland  the  fleets  met  once  more, 
and  it  was  a terrible  fight.  Though  Blake  was  badly 
wounded,  the  victory  lay  with  the  English.  He  fol- 
lowed up  the  advantages  he  had  gained,  and  near  the 
North  Foreland  took  eleven  Dutch  ships  and  1350 
prisoners,  with  a small  loss.  His  wound  had  by  now  so 
affected  his  health,  that  he  was  compelled  to  return  to 
England,  leaving  Monk  to  fight  the  last  great  fight,  in 
which  Yan  Tromp  was  killed,  6000  Dutchmen  killed, 
wounded,  or  made  prisoners,  and  twenty-six  of  their 
ships  sunk  or  taken.  However,  though  the  Dutch  were 
settled,  it  was  necessary  to  assert  the  English  power  in 
the  Mediterranean,  especially  where  Spain  was  concerned, 
and  Blake  was  the  name  to  conjure  with.  So,  in  spite 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


191 

of  his  painful  illness,  he  set  out  once  more,  “ the  one 
man  able  to  preserve  the  commonwealth,”  Cromwell  told 
him.  At  Santa  Cruz  he  met  the  Spanish  fleet  and 
conquered  it.  “ To  God  be  all  the  glory,”  he  wrote  in 
his  simply  worded  despatch  which  told  of  this  great  and 
popular  victory. 

Then,  feeling  his  increasing  weakness,  he  asked  leave 
to  return  home,  as  “ the  work  was  done  and  the  chain 
complete.”  But  he  died  at  sea,  in  sight  of  Plymouth 
Sound.  His  funeral  in  Westminster  Abbey  was  a splen- 
did one,  worthy  of  the  splendid  service  he  had  rendered 
to  England,  Cromwell  having  ordered  that  “ no  pomp 
was  to  be  spared,  so  as  to  encourage  all  officers  to 
venture  their  lives.”  A lasting  shame  it  is  indeed  that 
at  the  Restoration  his  remains,  with  those  of  Deane,  one 
of  his  admirals,  and  other  Parliamentary  officers,  were 
taken  from  their  graves,  and  buried  without  any  mark  of 
respect  in  one  common  grave  in  St.  Margaret’s  Church- 
yard. Within  the  Abbey  no  monument  marks  his  grave, 
though  he  had  held  for  England  the  supremacy  of  the 
seas  against  vigorous  attacks,  and  had  made  a reputation 
for  himself  “ very  wonderful,  which  will  never  be  for- 
gotten in  Spain.” 

The  very  name  of  Prince  Rupert  breathes  of  romance 
and  adventure.  His  mother  was  the  fascinating  and 
high-spirited  Princess  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  James  I., 
who  had  married  Frederick,  Prince  Palatine  of  the 
Rhine,  and  had  persuaded  him  to  accept  the  crown  of 
Bohemia  when  it  was  offered  to  him  by  the  people,  who 
had  just  wrested  their  independence  from  the  Emperor 


192  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


of  Austria.  But  his  reign  at  Prague  was  short,  for 
the  Emperor  won  back  his  own,  and  the  Queen  of 
Hearts,  as  Elizabeth  was  affectionately  called,  had  to 
escape  with  her  children  as  best  she  could,  Rupert  being 
but  a few  weeks  old.  Her  father,  afraid  of  Spain  and 
the  Roman  Catholic  powers,  would  do  nothing  to  help 
her,  so  she  would  have  fared  badly  had  it  not  been  for 
some  faithful  English  friends,  headed  by  Lord  Craven, 
and  the  people  of  Holland,  who  looked  on  the  king  of 
Bohemia  as  a sufferer  in  the  Protestant  cause,  and  who 
therefore  gave  his  family  a home  besides  a generous 
allowance.  Frederick  was  not  only  deprived  of  his  new 
kingdom,  but  lost  also  his  old  possessions,  for  the 
Emperor  seized  his  lands  on  the  Rhine  and  spoiled  his 
palaces.  Many  a brave  attempt  he  made  to  win  back 
the  Palatinate,  always  to  be  baffled,  and  at  last,  after  the 
death  of  his  eldest  son,  he  fell  into  such  a low  state  of 
health  that  he  died  of  a fever.  Elizabeth  was  left  with 
three  sons  and  two  daughters,  Rupert  being  her  idol,  for  she 
believed  him  born  to  be  a hero.  And  truly  he  was  a boy 
to  be  proud  of,  excelling  in  everything  he  undertook,  and 
such  a true  soldier  that,  when  he  was  only  fourteen,  his 
tutors  declared  he  was  worthy  to  command  a regiment. 
When  Charles  I.  became  king,  he  invited  two  of  his 
nephews  to  England,  and,  with  the  queen,  at  once  lost 
his  heart  to  Rupert,  who  was  then  about  eighteen.  He 
proposed  making  him  a bishop  or  marrying  him  to  an 
heiress,  but  Rupert  would  hear  of  neither  plan.  A 
soldier’s  life,  with  plenty  of  adventure,  was  the  only  life 
for  him. 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


193 


On  the  22nd  of  August  in  the  year  1642,  the  Civil 
War  broke  out  in  England ; the  royal  standard  was  set 
up  at  Nottingham,  and  Prince  Rupert  was  made  General 
of  the  Royal  Horse,  he  being  then  but  twenty-three. 
His  very  presence,  brimming  over  as  he  was  with 
enthusiasm,  vigour,  and  determination,  brought  a breath 
of  new  life  to  the  men  who  “ could  not  hold  back 
when  the  royal  standard  waved,”  yet  “ who  did  not 
like  the  quarrel,  and  heartily  wished  the  king  would 
yield  and  consent  to  what  Parliament  desired.” 

But  Rupert  was  quite  untouched  by  the  general 
feeling  of  depression.  The  cause  or  its  merits  con- 
cerned him  but  little  ; he  knew  nothing  of  the  intensity 
of  the  struggle,  of  the  many  unredressed  grievances,  of 
the  arbitrary  treatment  of  the  nation’s  representatives  in 
Parliament,  of  the  total  disregard  for  the  opinions  of  the 
people  which  had  at  last  made  nothing  but  war  possible 
between  two  such  conflicting  parties.  He  only  saw  the 
romantic  side,  a king  called  upon  to  defend  himself  in 
his  own  realm  against  rebels  and  traitors,  and  so  heart 
and  soul  he  espoused  his  uncle’s  cause.  A cavalier  of  the 
cavaliers  was  Prince  Rupert,  with  his  handsome  face, 
long  flowing  hair,  clean -shaved  cheeks,  beplumed  hat, 
and  scarlet  cloak,  to  which  he  added  a very  gallant 
bearing  and  a lordly  manner.  Directly  he  saw  the 
cavalry  he  was  to  command,  less  than  a thousand 
badly  mounted  untrained  men,  he  dashed  away  like  a 
whirlwind,  to  scour  the  country  in  search  of  more. 
Here,  there,  and  everywhere  he  came  and  went  like  a 
flash,  “in  a short  time  heard  of  in  many  places  at  great 

N 


i94  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


distances,”  to  quote  a Parliamentary  historian,  till  the 
very  sound  of  his  name  had  a magic  effect.  He 
charmed  some,  he  terrified  others,  but  he  did  what  he 
would  with  them  all,  and  in  less  than  a month  he  rode 
back  to  join  the  court  at  Shrewsbury,  with  a picked 
force  of  three  thousand  men,  well  horsed  and  equipped. 
Contrasted  with  the  indecision  of  Charles,  Rupert’s  high- 
handed audacity  was  refreshing,  and  when  the  king  left 
him  free  “ to  steer  his  own  course,”  he  at  once  set  out 
for  Worcester,  which  was  threatened  by  Essex  and  the 
Parliamentary  army. 

The  Royalist  plan  was  to  march  on  London,  a plan 
which  Parliament  saw  must  at  all  costs  be  frustrated,  so 
Essex  received  imperative  orders  to  intercept  and  check 
the  enemy.  At  Edgehill,  near  Banbury,  the  armies  met, 
and  the  king,  from  his  position  on  a liill-top,  took  view 
of  Essex  and  his  army  in  the  vale. 

“ I shall  give  them  battle,”  he  said.  “ God  assist  the 
justice  of  my  cause.” 

Then  he  called  a council  of  war,  at  which  many 
points  of  difference  arose  between  the  old  soldiers  and 
the  young.  Of  course  Rupert  was  the  spokesman  for 
the  latter,  and  this  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  come 
into  collision  with  the  other  generals  of  the  Royalist 
army.  Caution  was  a word  unknown  to  him,  and  patience 
did  not  exist  iu  his  vocabulary.  Slow  and  steady 
tactics  he  abhorred ; he  scorned  the  enemy,  and  pleaded 
vehemently  for  bold,  dashing  movements,  which  were, 
he  said,  best  suited  to  the  high-spirited  soldiers  of  the 
king.  As  usual  he  prevailed,  for  he  was  never  one  who 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


195 


could  be  persuaded  to  change  bis  opinion.  His  plan 
of  battle  was  decided  on,  which  meant  that  the  Royal 
Horse  should  charge  and  drive  the  Roundhead  Cavalry 
from  the  field,  afterwards  falling  upon  the  flank  of  the 
enemy’s  infantry,  while  the  Royalist  infantry  attacked 
them  from  the  front. 

“ Then,”  he  added,  carried  away  by  the  thought  of 
a victory  which  seemed  so  obvious,  “ the  day  is  ours.” 

When  the  battle  began  in  earnest  Rupert  charged 
with  his  cavalry,  and  so  magnificently,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  all  his  prophecies  were  fully  justified,  for  the  Round- 
heads  were  swept  backwards  till  they  broke  and  fled. 
But  so  excited  and  eager  were  the  horsemen  to  pursue 
their  flying  foes,  that  they  left  all  the  Royalist  infantry 
unprotected,  and  when  Prince  Rupert  returned  witli 
such  troops  as  he  could  rally  from  the  chase,  he  found 
all  confusion  and  uncertainty.  Moreover,  it  was  nearly 
dark,  and  no  one  was  ready  to  support  Rupert  when 
he  entreated  that  another  charge  might  be  made  to 
settle  the  day.  So,  after  all,  it  was  only  half  a 
victory  for  the  king’s  army,  even  though  he  held  the 
road  to  London,  while  altogether  quite  6000  English- 
men lay  dead  on  the  field. 

Charles  next  made  a move  to  Oxford,  where  he 
established  his  Court,  for  Oxford  was  almost  the  only 
city  at  that  time  “ wholly  devoted  to  his  Majesty,”  and 
from  here  peace  negotiations  were  again  entered  into, 
with  the  usual  result  that  both  sides  were  left  still 
more  bitterly  opposed  to  each  other.  Rupert  was  charged 
with  attacking  two  Parliamentary  regiments  at  Brentford 


196  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


during  the  negotiations  when  all  fighting  was  suspended. 
But  with  all  his  faults  of  impatience  and  impetuosity  he 
was  far  too  honourable  a soldier  to  have  willingly  taken 
any  unfair  advantage  of  his  foe,  and  it  seems  clear  what 
he  did  was  at  the  king’s  command,  or  when  he  was 
in  ignorance  of  the  stage  which  had  been  reached  in 
the  negotiations.  While  the  king  and  the  main  army 
lay  inactive  though  full  of  talk  at  Oxford,  Rupert 
with  his  cavalry  scoured  the  country  round  in  search 
of  men,  horses,  food,  and  forage,  and  indeed  whatever 
they  could  lay  hands  on ; for  as  Parliament  held  all 
the  money,  the  king’s  soldiers  had  to  live  off  the 
country  as  best  they  could,  and  wait  patiently  for 
pay  which  rarely  came.  The  Prince,  as  was  his  wont, 
journeyed  far  and  wide,  his  special  object  being  to 
extend  the  king’s  territory  all  round  Oxford  and 
to  take  in  all  the  west  of  England.  So  we 
hear  of  him,  sometimes  successful  and  sometimes 
baffled,  at  Cirencester,  Banbury,  Bristol,  Gloucester, 
Birmingham,  and  Wales,  then  moving  northwards  in 
Leicester  and  Northamptonshire,  till  at  the  peremptory 
command  of  Charles  he  made  his  way  towards  York, 
which  was  in  great  danger,  and  which,  “ if  lost,”  wrote 
the  king,  “ would  mean  little  less  than  the  loss  of  the 
crown.” 

He  relieved  the  town  with  great  dash,  but  was  so 
eager  to  press  on  that  he  would  not  even  wait  to  speak 
to  the  governor,  Lord  Newcastle,  who  was  very  offended 
at  what  he  considered  to  be  a want  of  respect.  Still 
more  angry  was  he  when  he  received  a message  from 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


197 


Rupert  commanding  him  to  follow  the  cavalry  without 
delay.  He  made  no  haste  to  carry  out  this  order,  and 
Rupert,  who  was  in  close  touch  with  the  enemy,  waited 
for  him  in  vain.  The  delay  cost  the  Royalists  dear,  for 
the  battle  of  Marston  Moor  which  ensued  was  a com- 
plete triumph  for  the  Roundheads.  But  even  then 
Rupert  did  not  lose  heart,  as  did  so  many  of  his  party. 

“ ‘ What  will  you  do  ? ’ asked  General  King  of  him. 
‘ I will  rally  my  men,’  sayes  ye  Prince.  Sayes  General 
King,  ‘ Nowe  what  will  my  Lord  Newcastle  do  ? ’ 
Sayes  he,  ‘ I will  go  to  Holland,  for  all  is  lost.’  ” 

The  defeat  of  the  Northern  army  was  decisive,  and 
Rupert  felt  the  only  help  lay  in  Wales  and  the 
west  of  England.  But  defeat  followed  defeat.  At 
Naseby  the  Parliamentary  army  was  again  victorious ; 
Bristol  surrendered,  then  Oxford.  Nor  was  this  all. 
Among  the  king’s  nearest  advisers  were  many  who 
disliked  Prince  Rupert,  especially  Lord  Digby,  and 
when  the  Prince  surrendered  Bristol,  he  saw  his 
opportunity  for  revenge.  Very  cleverly  he  worked  on 
Charles  to  such  an  extent  that  he  made  it  appear  as 
if  Rupert  had  weakly  capitulated  without  any  justi- 
fication, and  the  king,  who  all  too  easily  forgot  the 
past,  signed  an  order  revoking  the  military  autho- 
rity and  position  he  had  bestowed  on  his  nephew. 
The  Prince  was  sorely  hurt  and  indignant  at  this  want 
of  confidence.  “ It  is  Digby  that  is  the  cause  of  all 
the  distraction,”  he  said  quietly,  and  then  proceeded 
to  defend  his  honour  and  his  action,  which  he  did  in 
a manner  that  commended  itself  to  all  fair-minded  men. 


198  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Having  written  a full  account  of  the  siege,  and 
proved  that  holding  out  longer  would  have  only  meant 
a useless  sacrifice  of  valuable  lives,  he  followed  this  up 
by  going  straight  to  the  king  at  Newark,  in  spite  of 
having  been  forbidden  to  do  so  by  Digby.  “ I am 
come,  sir,”  he  said,  “ to  render  an  account  of  Bristol.” 
At  first  Charles  would  not  listen,  but  Rupert  insisted 
on  a court-martial,  which  at  last  was  granted,  and 
which  completely  cleared  him.  The  king  accepted  the 
verdict,  but  in  a half-hearted  way,  which  nettled  the 
Prince,  who  was  already  chafing  at  the  unjust  accusa- 
tions made  against  his  honour.  A few  days  later  he 
vigorously  fought  the  battle  of  another  officer  who  had 
been  dismissed — also  the  victim  of  Digby’s  jealousy. 

“ No  officer,”  he  declared  indignantly,  “ should  be 
deprived  of  his  commission  without  being  able  to  defend 
himself  against  a council  of  war.” 

In  his  anger  he  applied  to  Parliament  for  permission 
to  return  to  Holland,  but  when  the  message  came  that 
this  would  only  be  given  on  condition  that  he  did  not 
fight  again,  he  indignantly  refused  the  terms.  His 
loyalty  was  deeper  than  his  anger  when  it  came  to 
the  test. 

Ere  long,  however,  the  hopeless,  weary  struggle 
reached  its  end.  The  king  threw  himself  on  the 
mercy  of  his  Scottish  army,  who  for  .£400,000  gave 
him  up  to  Parliament,  and  he  was  made  a prisoner. 
Rupert  found  his  way  to  France,  and  later  on  he  joined 
the  Prince  of  Wales  in  getting  together  a small  fleet 
which  it  was  proposed  to  send  to  Ireland.  He  entered 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


199 


enthusiastically  into  this  new  career.  “ The  royal 
cause,”  he  said,  “ is  now  at  sea.”  Far  and  wide  on  the 
ocean  he  was  to  be  heard  of  with  his  ships,  round 
Spain,  Portugal,  in  the  Mediterranean  and  the  West 
Indies,  near  Azores  and  Cape  Verde,  seizing  wherever 
he  could  find  them  the  treasure-ships  belonging  to 
the  English  Parliament.  His  name  was  a terror  by  sea 
as  it  had  been  by  land,  and  the  adventurous  life  was 
quite  according  to  his  liking.  With  the  Restoration  he 
came  back  to  England,  and  Charles  settled  on  him  an 
allowance  of  ^4000  a year,  besides  giving  him  an 
important  command  in  the  fleet.  But  no  real  scope 
was  allowed  him  for  his  powers,  and  Charles,  with  all 
his  foreign  intrigues,  found  Rupert  too  inconveniently 
straightforward  and  resolute. 

So  the  end  of  his  life  was  a disappointment,  though 
when  action  of  one  sort  was  denied  him,  his  eager 
brain  turned  to  science,  chemistry,  and  inventions. 
Most  of  his  old  friends  had  vanished ; his  mother  had 
died  many  years  before,  protected  and  comforted  to  the 
last  by  Lord  Craven,  who  had  taken  for  a motto  the 
words  “ For  God  and  for  Her ; ” and  of  his  sisters,  one 
was  an  abbess,  the  other  married  to  the  Elector  of 
Hanover. 

He  lived  alone  and  quietly  at  his  house  in  Spring 
Gardens  at  the  top  of  Whitehall,  and  when  he  died, 
comparatively  young,  he  was  “ generally  lamented  for  an 
honest,  brave,  true-hearted  man,  whose  life  had  em- 
braced innumerable  toils,  and  a variety  of  noble  actions 
by  land  and  by  sea.” 


200  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“ It  is  an  infinite  pity  lie  is  not  employed  according 
to  his  genius,”  a friend  of  his  mother’s  had  written  to 
her  long  years  before.  “ He  is  full  of  spirit  and  action, 
and  may  be  compared  to  steel,  which  is  the  commanding 
metal  if  it  be  rightly  tempered  and  disposed.  What- 
ever he  wills,  he  wills  vehemently.” 

And  this  criticism,  which  was  true  of  him  up  to  the 
day  he  died,  contains  the  essence  of  his  successes  and 
of  his  failures. 

It  was  in  this  vaulted  chapel  of  the  Tudor  kings  that 
Oliver  Cromwell  was  buried  with  regal  magnificence, 
his  effigy  robed  in  purple,  surrounded  by  a sceptre,  a 
sword,  and  an  imperial  crown,  being  also  placed  in  the 
Abbey.  Many  of  his  friends  and  followers — Pym,  the 
hero  of  his  early  days  ; Ireton,  his  son-in-law  ; Bradshaw, 
the  President  of  the  Court  which  had  tried  and  con- 
demned the  King  in  Westminster  Hall  close  by — were 
already  by  his  desire  buried  in  the  Abbey,  as  were  most 
of  his  immediate  family  ; his  old  mother,  who  had  always 
said  “ she  cared  nothing  for  her  son’s  grandeur,  and 
was  always  afraid  when  she  heard  a musket  lest  he 
should  be  shot,  and  his  best  loved  daughter,  Betty, 
Elizabeth  Claypole.  The  latter  was  such  an  attractive 
girl,  and  “ played  the  part  of  princess  so  naturally, 
and  obliging  all  persons  by  her  civility,”  that  Crom- 
well feared  lest  her  very  charms  should  be  a snare  to 
her,  leading  her  thoughts  from  God.  His  letters  to  her 
show  all  the  tenderest  side  of  his  strong  nature.  “ I 
watch  thy  growth  as  a Seeker  after  truth,”  he  once 
wrote  to  her.  “ To  be  a Seeker  is  to  be  of  the  best 


Oliver  Cromwell 


\ 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


201 


sect,  next  to  a Finder.  And  such  a one  shall  every 
happy  Seeker  be  at  the  end.” 

Oliver  Cromwell  was  ever  a son  of  strife,  and  two 
years  after  his  death,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  king’s 
execution,  his  body  was  dragged  from  the  grave  by 
order  of  the  Restoration  Parliament  and  publicly  hung, 
a similar  revenge  being  meted  out  to  Bradshaw  and 
Ireton,  and  the  “ pure-souled  patriot  John  Pym.” 

So  to-day  we  do  not  even  know  where  he  is  buried, 
and  only  a plate  in  the  floor  of  Henry  VII. ’s  chapel, 
put  there  by  Dean  Stanley,  shows  us  where  once  the 
great  man  lay. 

For  great  he  surely  was,  even  though  narrow,  relent- 
less, arbitrary,  and  overbearing ; great,  that  is  to  say,  if 
high  aims,  honest  ambitions,  dogged  courage,  and  un- 
swerving obedience  to  what  he  held  to  be  the  Divine 
voice,  count  for  ought  in  the  standard  we  require  of  our 
public  men. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


CHAUCER 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  the  first  English  poet  or  writer 
to  be  buried  within  the  Abbey,  and  just  as  the  Con- 
fessor’s tomb  drew  kings  and  queens  to  lie  around  it,  so 
Chaucer’s  grave,  in  a way  undreamed  of  at  the  time, 
consecrated  one  part  of  Westminster  as  the  Poets’ 
Corner.  And  what  more  fitting  than  that  he  who  has 
been  so  justly  named  the  “ poet  of  the  dawn,  the  finder 
of  our  fair  language,  the  father  of  English  poetry,”  should 
rest,  when  his  life’s  work  was  ended,  near  to  those  others 
with  whose  names  our  early  history  is  studded  ? 

He  was  born  in  London  about  the  year  1335,  the 
son  of  a merchant  vintner,  and  throughout  his  life 
London  was  to  him  “ a city  very  deare  and  sweete.” 
He  was  well  educated,  though  where  we  know  not,  in 
classics,  divinity,  astronomy,  philosophy,  and  chemistry, 
and  naturally  spoke  Prench  fluently,  as  its  use  was 
general.  From  his  boyhood  he  loved  reading  only  less 
than  he  loved  nature. 

“ On  bokes  for  to  rede,  I me  delyte, 

Save  certeynly  whan  that  the  monetk  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I here  the  foules  synge, 

And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  sprynge, 

Farwel  my  boke  and  my  devocioun.” 

202 


CHAUCER 


203 


And  almost  equally,  too,  he  loved  to  see  life,  to  travel 
in  foreign  countries,  to  study,  in  a kindly  sympathetic 
spirit,  human  nature  in  all  its  forms,  neither  criticising 
harshly  nor  condemning  impatiently,  but  just  observing 
and  understanding. 

Those  early  years  of  his  life  marked  a great  epoch  in 
England,  for  Edward  III.  made  the  land  ring  with  the 
fame  of  his  victories  at  Crecy  and  Poitiers ; the  valour 
of  his  knights  and  soldiers ; the  fair  and  famous  deeds 
done  in  the  name  of  that  chivalry  which  was  then  at  its 
height ; and  young  Chaucer  seems  to  have  caught  the 
reflection  of  all  that  enthusiasm  and  vigour.  He  was 
the  child  of  his  age,  but  he  heard  its  sobs  as  well  as  its 
laughter,  the  rattling  chains  of  its  slaves  as  well  as  the 
clanking  steel  and  the  trumpet  notes  of  its  armed  men. 
The  Black  Death  and  the  revolt  of  the  downtrodden 
peasants  made  a grim  setting  to  the  picture  of  heart- 
stirring triumphs  in  the  battle-field,  and  Chaucer  saw 
both  the  setting  and  the  picture. 

When  he  was  about  twenty  he  became  attached  to 
the  court  in  a humble  capacity,  but  his  pleasant  manners 
and  conversation,  his  cheerfulness  and  his  straight- 
forward simplicity,  soon  won  him  promotion,  so  that  he 
was  made  first  gentleman-in-waiting,  then  esquire  to 
King  Edward,  who  more  than  once  spoke  of  him  as  his 
“beloved  valet,”  and  who  trusted  him  well  enough  to 
send  him  on  many  important  missions  to  foreign  countries 
as  his  messenger.  But  Chaucer’s  greatest  and  unchang- 
ing ally  at  court  was  the  king’s  brother,  John  of 
Gaunt.  For  more  than  forty  years  their  friendship 


204  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


remained  unbroken  through  many  ups  and  downs  of 
fortune. 

In  1369  John  of  Gaunt’s  first  wife,  Blanche,  died, 
young,  beautiful,  and  beloved.  Chaucer  had  already 
shown  his  power  of  writing  excellent  verse  by  a trans- 
lation he  had  made  from  a celebrated  French  poem 
“ Le  Roman  de  la  Rose,”  so  it  was  only  natural  that 
John  of  Gaunt  should  turn  to  him  when  in  the  sorrow 
of  the  moment  he  desired  the  goodness  and  charm  of  his 
lady  to  be  commemorated.  The  result  was  the  “ Book 
of  the  Duchess,”  a story  told  as  an  allegory,  for 
Chaucer  was  under  the  spell  of  French  literature,  which 
revelled  in  allegory.  In  this  book  he  tells  how  one 
May  morning,  the  sun  shining  in  at  his  windows,  and 
the  sound  of  the  “ sweete  foules  carolling,”  drew  him  forth 
into  the  forest,  where,  led  thereto  by  a faithful  dog,  he 
found  a knight  dressed  in  black,  mourning  all  in  a quiet 
spot  among  the  mighty  trees.  His  hands  drooped,  his 
face  was  pale,  he  could  not  be  consoled.  But  finding 
the  poet  a sympathetic  listener,  he  told  him  the  story  of 
his  sorrow. 

“ My  lady  bright 

Which  I heve  loved  with  all  my  might, 

Is  from  me  deed,  and  is  agone  . . . 

That  was  so  fair,  so  fresh,  so  free.” 

Years  of  happiness  he  had  spent  with  her,  this  sweet 
lady,  who  yet  was  so  strong  and  helpful. 

“ When  I hed  wrong  and  she  the  right, 

She  wolde  alwey  so  goodely 
Forgive  me  so  debonnairly. 


CHAUCER 


205 


In  alle  my  youth,  in  alle  chance, 

She  took  me  in  her  governaunce. 

Therewith  she  was  alway  so  trewe, 

Our  joys  was  ever  y-liche  newe.” 

And  now  she  was  dead.  Words  of  comfort  were  of  no 
avail.  The  poet  could  no  longer  intrude  on  grief  so 
overwhelming.  He  could  only  silently  sympathise,  and 
then  leave  the  mourning  knight  alone  in  his  sorrow, 
with  the  parting  words 

“ Is  that  your  los  1 By  God,  hit  is  routhe.” 

Soon  after  he  had  written  this  touching  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  a woman  who  had  been  his  ideal  of  goodness 
and  graciousness,  Chaucer  was  sent  on  a mission  to 
Genoa  and  Florence,  a journey  which  left  its  influence 
upon  him  in  a very  marked  manner,  as  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Francis  Petrarch,  the  Italian  poet,  and 
through  him  he  learned  to  know  the  works  of  Dante 
and  the  delightful  stories  of  Boccaccio.  A new  world 
was  opened  out  to  him,  and  eagerly  he  wandered  through 
it,  eyes  and  mind  open  to  every  fresh  vision  that  un- 
folded itself  before  him.  From  this  time  forward  his 
works  were  tinged  with  Italian  influence,  and  thereby 
became  much  the  richer.  For  he  lost  none  of  his  own 
sturdy  individuality  and  fresh,  pure  style ; he  only  added 
to  this  more  warmth,  more  colouring,  more  romance. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  was  made  Comptroller 
of  the  Customs  of  the  Port  of  London,  on  the  under- 
standing that  he  did  all  the  accounts  himself,  so  im- 
portant was  it  that  this  post  should  be  filled  by  a man 
who  was  both  shrewd  and  honest ; and  in  addition  to 


206  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


this  both  the  king  and  John  of  Gaunt  granted  him  cer- 
tain allowances  and  privileges,  so  that  in  worldly  affairs 
he  prospered.  Good  fortune,  however,  did  not  cause 
him  to  become  idle,  and  his  poems  followed  each  other 
in  quick  succession.  There  was  the  “ Assembly  of 
Fowles,”  of  course  an  allegory,  and  written  probably 
to  celebrate  the  betrothal  of  young  King  Richard  to 
the  Princess  Anne  of  Bohemia. 

“ Troilus  and  Cresside  ” was  a much  deeper  poem,  full 
of  sadness,  and  Chaucer  himself  called  it  his  “ little 
Tragedie,”  adding  the  hope  that  one  day  God  might  send 
it  to  him  to  “ write  some  Comedie.”  It  is  in  this  work 
that  he  refers  to  the  great  difficulty  with  which  he, 
in  common  with  the  other  writers  of  his  day,  had  to 
contend — the  unsettled  state  of  the  language.  The 
struggle  as  to  whether  the  French  or  English  tongue 
should  prevail  had  been  a fierce  one,  but  it  was  now 
in  its  last  throes.  Chaucer,  through  his  works,  helped 
more  than  any  one  else  to  develop  our  language  as  it 
is  to-day,  and  strenuously  avoided  those  “ owre  curyrows 
termes  which  could  not  be  understood  of  comyn  people, 
and  which  in  every  shire  varied.”  But  his  own  words 
show  the  difficulties  which  beset  him. 

“ And  for  there  is  so  great  diversite 
In  English,  and  in  writing  of  our  tong, 

So  pray  I God  that  none  miswrite  thee 
Or  thee  mismetre  for  default  of  tong, 

And  red  whereso  thou  be,  or  elles  song, 

That  thou  be  understood,  God  I beseech.” 

And  it  is  just  because  he  wrote  to  be  understood  that 


CHAUCER 


207 

the  charm  of  Chaucer’s  style  remains  for  ever  fresh  and 
entrancing. 

In  his  “ House  of  Eame  ” he  had  free  scope  for  his 
pleasant  wit,  especially  when  he  tells  of  all  he  saw  and 
heard  in  the  “ House  of  Rumour,”  whither  came  shipmen, 
pilgrims,  pardoners,  couriers,  and  their  like,  each  bring- 
ing scraps  of  news,  which,  whether  true  or  false,  were 
passed  on,  growing  like  a rolling  snowball.  He  set  fame 
at  its  true  value,  and  for  himself  only  desires  that  in 
life  he  might  be  able  to  “ study  and  rite  alway,”  while 
for  the  rest — 

“ It  suffyceth  me,  as  I were  dedd, 

That  no  wight  have  my  name  in  honde, 

I wot  myself  best  how  I stonde.” 

The  “ Legend  of  Good  Women  ” was  written  in  praise 
of  all  those  maidens  and  wives  who  loved  truly  and 
unchangingly. 

Hitherto  Chaucer,  whose  married  life  was  not  an 
altogether  happy  one,  had  sung  but  little  of  love  in  its 
highest,  purest  form.  But  here,  in  a prologue  spark- 
ling and  radiant  as  the  morning  he  describes,  he  tells 
us  how  he  went  out  to  greet  the  daisy,  the  flower 
he  loved,  and  would  ever  love  anew  till  his  heart  did 
die. 

“ Kneeling  alway,  til  it  unclosed  was 
Upon  the  swete,  softe,  swote  gras 
That  was  with  flour es  swote  embroidered  all.” 

In  his  dream  there  came  to  him  the  God  of  Love, 


208  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


with  his  queen,  Alcestis,  who,  daisy-like,  was  clad  in 
royal  habits  green — 

“ A fret  of  golde  she  hedde  next  her  heer, 

And  upon  that  a white  courone  she  beer.” 

She  it  was  who  made  him  swear  that  from  hence- 
forth he  would  “ poetize  of  wommen  trewe  in  lovy- 
ing,”  “ speke  wel  of  love,”  and  so  make  a glorious 
legend. 

Chaucer  had  intended  writing  at  least  nineteen  stories 
on  the  lines  decreed  by  Alcestis,  but  his  days  of  pros- 
perity had  come  to  an  end  for  the  time  being,  with  the 
exile  of  John  of  Gaunt,  and  he  became  so  poor  after 
his  dismissal  from  the  Customs,  that  he  had  to  raise 
money  on  his  pension.  And  so  the  legend  seems  to 
have  been  laid  aside. 

When  Henry  of  Lancaster  became  king  five  years 
later,  he  doubled  the  pension,  remembering  how  his 
father,  just  dead,  had  loved  the  poet ; and  so  the  cloud, 
which  had  been  heavy  enough  while  it  lasted,  passed 
away.  But  it  is  to  those  dark  days  that  we  owe  the 
greatest  of  all  Chaucer’s  work — his  “ Canterbury  Tales  ” 
— work,  it  must  be  remembered,  which  rings  and  re- 
rings with  cheerfulness,  courage,  sympathy,  and  kind- 
liness. We  know  so  little  of  Chaucer  as  a man,  but 
this  one  fact  stands  out,  that  he  never  allowed  his  own 
troubles  or  anxieties,  or  even  his  pressing  poverty,  to  over- 
cloud his  heart  or  his  mind.  For  him  the  sun  shone 
always,  though  he  saw  it  not,  and  because  of  that  sun- 


CHAUCER 


209 

shine  no  trace  of  bitterness  or  harshness  is  to  be  found 
in  his  work. 

In  the  prologue  to  the  “ Tales  ” Chaucer  explains  his 
plot  in  the  most  natural  and  personal  way.  One  day  in 
the  spring,  he  says,  he  was  waiting  at  the  Tabard  Inn, 
to  rest  before  continuing  a pilgrimage  he  had  set  out  to 
make  to  Canterbury,  when  twenty-nine  other  pilgrims, 
all  bound  for  the  same  destination,  arrived.  He  soon 
made  friends  with  them,  and,  finding  their  company  very 
entertaining,  arranged  to  join  this  party.  Then  came  the 
proposal  that  each  one  should  tell  two  tales  to  enliven 
the  journey ; a good  supper  at  the  end  to  be  the  reward 
of  the  pilgrim  whose  story  found  most  favour.  The 
jovial  host  of  the  inn  decided  to  join  them,  and  one 
morning  in  early  spring  the  procession  set  out.  What  a 
motley  crowd  they  were ! Yet  Chaucer,  with  his  happy 
knack  of  describing  people  just  as  they  appeared,  has 
made  them  all  so  real  to  us,  that  it  is  easy  to  picture 
each  one  of  them,  and  in  so  doing  to  get  a vivid  glimpse 
of  the  men  and  women  whom  the  poet  was  accustomed 
to  meet  every  day  of  his  life.  But  for  Chaucer  we 
should  know  next  to  nothing  about  the  people  of  his 
day.  First  came  the  knight,  who  “ lovede  chyvalrye,” 
who  had  ridden  far  afield  in  his  master’s  wars ; a great 
soldier,  but  tender  as  a woman,  “ a verrey  parfyte  gentil 
knight.”  With  him  was  his  son,  acting  as  his  squire, 
great  of  strength,  able  to  make  brave  songs,  and  to 
sit  well  his  horse,  handsomely  dressed,  yet  in  his 
manners  “ curteys,  lowly,  and  servysable.”  His  atten- 
dant was  a yeoman,  sunburnt  and  sturdy,  who  carried 

0 


2io  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


the  sheaf  of  arrows,  which  he  could  dress  right  yeomanly. 
It  seems  likely  that  for  a short  while  Chaucer  served  as 
a soldier  in  France,  and  if  so,  how  familiar  these  three 
must  have  been  to  him.  Then  came  the  prioress,  very 
“ pleasant  and  semely,”  adopting  court  manners,  and  im- 
pressing every  one  with  the  idea  that  she  was  so  com- 
passionate and  charitable  that  even  to  see  a mouse  in  a 
trap  made  her  weep.  She  had  her  own  attendant  nuns 
and  priests.  The  monk  was  only  interested  in  riding, 
but  the  friar,  who  was  licensed  to  hear  confessions,  raise 
money,  and  perform  the  offices  of  the  Church  in  a certain 
district,  was  merry,  the  good  friend  of  all  rich  women, 
and  reported  to  “ hear  confession  very  sweetly,”  being  easy 
with  the  penances  he  ordered.  Sometimes  he  lisped,  “ to 
make  his  English  sweet  upon  the  tongue,”  and  when  he 
sang  to  his  guitar,  “ his  eyes  shone  like  stars  on  a frosty 
night.”  The  merchant  sat  high  on  his  horse,  and  talked 
loudly  of  his  increased  wealth,  a great  contrast  to  the  poor 
clerk  of  Oxford,  who  looked  hollow,  wore  a threadbare 
cloak,  and  had  not  been  worldly  enough  to  get  a benefice. 
The  sergeant-at-law,  the  landholder,  the  haberdasher,  car- 
penter, weaver,  dyer,  tapestry-maker,  the  cook,  the  sailor, 
and  the  doctor,  all  had  their  special  characteristics,  but 
of  these  there  is  not  space  to  speak.  The  wife  of  Bath 
had  a bold  face  and  wore  bright  clothes ; had  buried  five 
husbands,  all  of  whom  she  had  ruled,  and  was  quite 
willing  to  try  a sixth.  The  poor  parson,  who  was 
“a  shephord  holy  and  vertuous,  never  despising  sinful 
men,  but  teaching  them  the  law  of  Christ,  which  he 
faithfully  followed,”  was,  I think,  the  pilgrim  whom 


CHAUCER 


2 1 1 


Chaucer  most  reverenced.  The  religion  of  the  monks 
and  friars  revolted  him,  but  those  poor  priests,  leading 
their  simple  lives  of  work  and  worship,  were  to  his  eyes 
in  very  truth  the  servants  of  Christ,  who  witnessed 
loyally  to  their  Master,  in  spite  of  the  contempt  with 
which  their  very  poverty  caused  them  to  be  treated. 
His  brother,  the  ploughman,  was  in  his  way  as  good  a 
man  as  the  priest,  for  he  was  a true  and  honest  labourer, 
who  lived  in  charity  with  all,  loved  God,  and  would,  for 
Christ’s  sake,  “ thresh,  dyke,  or  delve  for  the  poor  widow’s 
hire.”  The  miller ; the  manciple,  who  bought  the  food  for 
an  Inn  of  Court ; the  reeve  or  steward;  the  summoner  to  the 
ecclesiastical  courts  ; and  the  pardoner,  with  his  packets  of 
relics  which  he  always  sold  successfully,  made  up  the 
party ; and  all  having  agreed  to  the  host’s  proposals  as  to 
the  tales  to  be  told,  they  drew  lots  to  decide  who  should 
begin,  the  choice  falling  on  the  knight,  whereat  all  re- 
joiced. “Tell  us  merry  things,”  was  the  injunction  of 
the  host,  who  was  rejoicing  in  a spell  of  freedom  from 
his  wife’s  sharp  eyes  and  sharper  tongue,  and — 

“ Speak  ye  so  plain  at  this  time,  we  you  pray, 

That  we  may  understands  what  you  say.” 

Just  as  Chaucer  gave  to  each  pilgrim  his  own  indi- 
viduality, so  in  every  case  he  fitted  the  story  to  its  teller. 
The  knight  had  a tale  of  love,  romance,  and  adventure ; 
the  clerk  chose  for  heroine  the  patient,  much-suffering 
Griselda ; the  prioress  told  of  a child-martyr,  and  the 
poor  parson,  in  earnest  words,  drew  their  thoughts  up- 
ward to  “ that  parfyt  glorious  pilgrimage  which  each  and 


212  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


all  must  make  to  celestial  Jerusalem.”  Chaucer  did  not 
live  to  finish  all  the  tales  he  had  planned  out.  In  the 
year  1399  he  had  taken  on  a long  lease  a house  at 
Westminster,  which  stood  where  now  is  Henry  VII.’s 
chapel,  and  here  he  spent  the  last  few  months  of  his 
life,  reading  and  writing  contentedly  to  the  end,  in  high 
favour  at  the  Palace  hard  by,  and  the  centre  of  a little 
group  who  loved  and  revered  him.  Probably  the  poor 
priest’s  tale  was  his  last  bit  of  work,  and  that  signi- 
ficantly ends  with  words  concerning  the  pilgrimage 
of  man  to  the  Heavenly  City,  “ To  thilke  life  He 
bring  us,  that  bought  us  with  His  precious  blood. 
Amen.” 

Chaucer’s  wife  had  been  dead  many  years,  and  of 
his  children  we  know  nothing,  except  that  to  his  son 
Lewis  he  gave  an  astrolabe,  an  instrument  for  taking  the 
height  of  the  stars,  and  wrote  for  him  a “ little  treatise  ” 
on  the  subject,  in  which  he  craves  pardon  for  his  “ rude 
inditing  and  his  superfluity  of  words,”  explaining  that  a 
child  is  best  taught  by  simple  words  and  much  repetition. 
But  we  can  never  think  of  Chaucer  as  alone  or  solitary 
in  his  old  age.  Rather  was  the  house  at  Westminster 
a pleasant  haven  of  rest  where  he  anchored  surrounded 
by  his  many  comrades  and  friends.  So  greatly  honoured 
was  he,  that  when  he  died  it  was  at  once  decided  to 
bury  him  in  the  Abbey.  The  verses  with  which  I 
end  have  been  called  Chaucer’s  Creed,  and  some  say  he 
repeated  them  just  before  his  death.  Certain  it  is  that 
they  guided  his  conduct  through  life. 


CHAUCER 


213 


THE  GOOD  COUNSEL  OF  CHAUCER 

Flee  from  the  crowd  and  dwell  with  truthfulness, 
Contented  with  thy  good,  though  it  be  small. 

Treasure  breeds  hate  and  climbing  dizziness ; 

The  world  is  envious,  wealth  beguiles  us  all. 

Care  not  for  loftier  things  than  to  thee  fall. 

Counsel  thyself,  who  counsel’st  others’  need, 

And  Truth  shall  thee  deliver  without  dread. 

Pain  thee  not  all  the  crooked  to  redress, 

Trusting  to  her  who  turneth  as  a ball ; 

For  little  meddling  wins  much  easiness. 

Beware  lest  thou  dost  kick  against  an  awl  ! 

Strive  not,  as  doth  a clay  pot  with  a wall. 

Judge  thou  thyself,  who  judgest  others’  deeds, 

And  Truth  shall  thee  deliver  without  dread. 

All  that  is  sent  receive  with  cheerfulness  : 

To  wrestle  with  this  world  inviteth  fall. 

Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness. 

Forth  ! pilgrim,  forth  ! Forth,  beast,  out  of  thy  stall  1 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all  ! 

Cast  by  ambition,  let  thy  soul  thee  lead, 

And  Truth  shall  thee  deliver,  without  dread. 


CHAPTER  XV 


SPENSER,  ADDISON,  AND  THE  POETS’  CORNER 

Chaucer  was  buried  in  the  year  1400,  and  it  was  close 
upon  two  hundred  years  before  another  great  poet, 
Edmund  Spenser,  “ followed  here  the  footing  of  his 
feet.”  During  much  of  this  interval  England  had  been 
in  a state  of  unrest  and  excitement.  First  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses,  then  the  Reformation,  with  the  bitter 
persecutions  that  followed  it,  had  stirred  men  to  the 
very  core.  Their  eyes  had  been  dazzled  by  the  sudden 
and  vehement  changes  which  had  followed  each  other. 
English  blood  had  flown  freely,  English  life  had  been 
offered  up  on  English  soil,  not  only  in  the  great  battles 
of  the  Civil  War,  but  on  scaffolds  and  in  fiery  flames. 
It  had  not  been  an  age  for  poets  or  writers.  Of  the 
few  who  have  left  their  mark  on  our  literature  during 
that  time,  John  Wycliffe  had  not  even  been  allowed  to 
rest  in  peace  after  death,  for  his  body  was  taken  from 
its  grave  and  burnt,  and  his  ashes  were  thrown  into  the 
river  Swift,  while  both  Sir  Thomas  More  and  the  Earl 
of  Surrey  had  been  executed  at  the  command  of  Henry 
VIII.  One  important  piece  of  work  had  indeed  been 
commenced  and  carried  on  during  those  days  of  storm 
which  affected  both  earlier  and  later  writers,  and 

314 


Chaucer’s  Tomb. 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


215 


which  was  distinctly  connected  with  the  Abbey.  For 
in  the  year  1477,  William  Caxton  had  settled  with  his 
printing  press  in  the  Almonry  at  Westminster,  and  had 
issued  his  famous  advertisement,  in  which  he  had  made 
known  the  fact  “ that  if  it  should  plese  ony  man, 
spiritual  or  temporal,  to  bye  ony  pyes  of  two  and  three 
commemoracions  of  Salisbro’s  use,  enpryntid  after 
the  forme  of  this  present  lettre,  which  been  wel 
and  truly  correct,  lete  hym  come  to  Westmonester 
into  the  Almonerye  at  the  Red  Pale,  and  he  shal 
have  them  good  chepe.”  He  had  learned  his  art 
in  Cologne  and  Bruges,  having  lived  for  nearly 
thirty  years  in  the  latter  place,  where  he  traded  as 
a merchant,  and  during  those  years  he  had  translated 
a number  of  books  into  English.  Why  he  settled 

on  Westminster  when  at  last  he  returned  to  England 
as  a middle-aged  man,  we  know  not,  unless  it  was 
that  he  fancied  he  should  find  quiet  and  security  under 
the  walls  of  the  Abbey,  or  that  the  abbots  and  monks, 
as  the  patrons  of  learning,  would  prove  themselves  good 
friends  to  him.  But  here  he  came,  and  here  from  his 
study,  “ where  lay  many  and  diverse  paunflettis  and 
bookys,”  this  wonderful  man,  who  was  master-printer, 
translator,  corrector,  and  editor,  worked  and  directed 
his  apprentices.  Over  a hundred  different  books  were 
issued  from  this  press,  among  them  being  “ The  Canter- 
bury Tales,”  the  “ fayre  and  ornate  termes  ” of  which 
gave  Caxton  “ such  greate  playsir,”  that  he  desired  to 
make  them  widely  known.  Many  people,  some  friends, 
some  strangers,  found  their  way,  full  of  curiosity  and 


21 6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


interest,  to  the  quaint  house,  which  was  marked  by  a 
large  white  shield  with  a red  bar,  there  to  watch 
Master  Caxton  and  his  workmen  at  their  strange  new 
craft,  and  many  shook  their  heads,  declaring  that  “ so 
many  books  could  never  find  purchasers.”  But  the  wise 
printer  heeded  them  not.  He  worked  with  a will  from 
morn  till  eve,  and  marked  his  hours  by  the  Abbey  bells. 
It  was  not  only  Chaucer’s  writings  that  he  gave  to  the 
public,  but  many  other  works  which  without  him  would 
long  have  remained  unknown  or  forgotten,  and  more 
than  any  one  else  he  helped  to  fix  the  language  which 
Chaucer  had  used,  by  himself  using  the  same  in  all  his 
translations.  His  busy  life  came  to  an  end  in  1491, 
and  he  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  St.  Margaret’s, 
Westminster.  But  at  the  sign  of  the  Red  Pale  his 
favourite  apprentice,  Wynken  de  Worde,  carried  on  the 
master’s  work  with  the  same  extraordinary  industry, 
producing  no  fewer  than  five  hundred  separate  books  up 
to  the  time  of  his  death  in  1535.  This  date  brings  us 
to  within  about  twenty  years  of  the  time  when  Edmund 
Spenser,  Walter  Raleigh,  and  Philip  Sidney,  the  singing 
birds  and  knightly  spirits  of  the  Elizabethan  Court,  were 
born.  Like  Chaucer,  Spenser  was  a Londoner,  and  he 
describes  his  birthplace  as 

“ The  merry  London,  my  most  kyndly  nurse, 

That  to  me  gave  this  life’s  first  active  source.” 

He  proudly  declared  that  “ he  took  his  name  from  an 
ancient  house,”  but  we  know  little  of  his  immediate 
family.  His  boyhood  was  spent  at  Smithfield,  then 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


217 


within  easy  reach  of  woods  and  fields,  and  he  has  given 
us  a glimpse  of  it  in  these  words,  which  show  that  he 
was  a boy  very  much  like  all  other  boys : — 

“ Whilome  in  youth,  when  flowed  my  joyfull  spring 
Like  swallow  swift,  I wandered  here  and  there 
For  heat  of  headlesse  lust  me  did  so  sting, 

That  I oft  doubted  daunger,  had  no  fear  : 

I went  the  wastefull  woodes  and  forrest  wide 
Withouten  dread  of  wolves  to  bene  espied. 

“ I wont  to  raunge  amid  the  mazie  thicket, 

And  gather  nuttes  to  make  my  Christmas  game, 

And  joyed  oft  to  chase  the  trembling  pricket, 

Or  hunt  the  hartlesse  hare  till  she  were  tame. 

What  wrecked  I of  wintrie  age’s  waste  ? 

Tho’  deemed  I my  spring  would  ever  last. 

“ How  often  have  I scaled  the  craggie  oke, 

All  to  dislodge  the  raven  of  her  nest  1 
How  have  I wearied  with  many  a stroke 
The  stately  walnut  tree,  the  while  the  rest 
Under  the  tree  fell  all  for  nuttes  at  strife  1 
For  like  to  me  was  libertye  and  life.” 

He  was  educated  at  the  Merchant  Taylors’  School,  and 
afterwards  at  Cambridge,  where  an  old  biographer  declares 
“ he  mispent  not  his  time,  as  the  fruites  of  his  labours 
doe  manifest,  for  that  he  became  an  excellent  scholar, 
especially  most  happy  in  English  poetry.”  But  no 
other  memories  remain  to  us  of  his  university  life 
except  the  names  of  his  two  great  and  lifelong  friends, 
and  all  we  know  of  him  during  the  first  few  years 
after  he  left  Cambridge  is  that  he  lived  in  the 
north,  and  that  he  fell  violently  in  love  with 
a certain  Rosaline,  “ a gentlewoman  both  of  nature 


2 1 8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and  manners,  worthy  to  be  commended  to  immortalitie 
for  her  rare  and  singular  virtues,”  but  who  apparently 
did  not  in  any  way  return  his  ardent  affections.  He 
lamented  her  indifference  so  deeply  that  he  left  his 
home  and  made  his  way  to  London,  “ all  weeping  and 
disconsolate,”  and  though  he  was  by  nature  light-hearted 
and  pleasure-loving,  he  treasured  the  memory  of  her 
many  charms  for  fourteen  years,  until  he  met  and 
married  the  Elizabeth  whom  he  described  as  “ my 
love,  my  life’s  last  ornament.”  But  if  it  was  despair 
which  drove  Spenser  to  London,  he  had  no  cause  ever 
to  regret  the  move,  for  it  led  to  his  making  the  acquain- 
tance of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  introduced  him  to  his 
uncle,  the  all-powerful  Earl  of  Leicester.  Both  received 
him  cordially,  and  in  a short  time  he  was  mixing  in 
all  the  intellectual  society  of  the  day.  England  was  at 
peace ; Elizabeth’s  firm  rule  made  for  prosperity ; the 
new  learning  had  taken  root ; the  spirit  of  adventure,  of 
imagination,  of  chivalry  had  free  scope ; the  spirit  of 
growth,  of  progress,  of  enterprise  pervaded  the  air.  All 
was  ready  for  the  coming  of  a poet  who  could  sing  as 
Chaucer  had  done,  and  make  sweet  music  with  the 
national  language.  In  the  winter  of  1579  Spenser 
published,  not  under  his  own  name,  his  “ Shepherdes 
Calendar,”  a series  of  shepherd  tales,  one  for  each 
of  the  twelve  months  of  the  year,  and  these  he  dedi- 
cated to  “ Maister  Philip  Sidney,  that  noble  and  vertuous 
gentleman,  most  worthy  of  all  titles,  both  of  learning 
and  chevalrie.”  At  once  the  “ new  poet  ” leapt  into 
fame,  though  nothing  could  have  been  in  greater  con- 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


219 


trast  than  Chaucer’s  Tales  and  Spenser’s  Calendar.  The 
first  faithfully  pictured  life  as  it  was  without  romance  or 
exaggeration ; the  second,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
day,  was  in  the  form  of  a masquerade : the  heroes  and 
heroines  were  all  shepherds  or  shepherdesses ; every- 
thing took  place  in  the  country,  every  one  was  a rustic, 
and  the  highest  praise  that  could  be  given  to  Chaucer 
was  to  call  him  the  “ god  of  shepherds.”  So  the  Calendar 
had  none  of  that  simplicity  and  truthfulness  which  gave 
to  Chaucer’s  work  its  great  charm.  Shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses, when  put  in  all  kinds  of  unnatural  positions, 
could  not  fail  to  be  unreal  and  artificial,  especially 
when  they  were  made  to  talk  in  the  language  of  scholars. 
But  Spenser’s  strength  lay  in  the  melody  of  his  verse, 
in  his  sense  of  beauty  and  his  power  over  language, 
and  it  has  been  truly  said  that  though  he  is  not  the 
greatest  of  poets,  his  poetry  is  the  most  poetical  of  all 
poetry. 

Fuller,  who  wrote  on  the  “ Worthies  of  England,”  tells 
us  that  Spenser  was  presented  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
was  so  overcome  by  the  beauties  of  his  poem,  that  she 
ordered  Lord  Burleigh  to  give  him  a hundred  pounds, 
to  which  the  cautious  Treasurer  objected,  saying  it  was 
too  much.  “ Then  give  him  what  is  reason,”  said  the 
Queen.  But  it  was  evident  that  Burleigh  had  not  a 
great  liking  for  the  new  poet,  probably  because  he  was 
such  a friend  of  Leicester’s,  and  Spenser  saw  nothing  of 
the  money  till  he  brought  it  to  the  Queen’s  remembrance 
in  a little  rhyme.  He  soon  found  that  he  could  not 


220  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


live  by  his  poetry,  but  he  had  no  desire  to  exist  on 
the  favours  of  Leicester  or  Sidney,  and  preferred  to 
earn  his  own  daily  bread  in  some  honourable  and 
independent  way.  An  opening  came  unexpectedly. 

Ireland  was  causing  much  anxiety  to  the  crown ; 
one  Lord  Deputy  after  another  sent  from  England 
had  failed  to  restore  to  it  order  or  good  government, 
and  had  come  home  depressed  and  disheartened, 
if  not  actually  disgraced.  In  1579  the  Government 
pressed  Lord  Grey  de  Wilton — the  “ good  Lord  Grey  ” 
— high-minded,  religious,  and  fearless,  to  undertake  the 
thankless  task,  and  he,  from  a sense  of  duty,  accepted 
the  office  of  Lord  Deputy.  He  invited  Spenser  to  come 
with  him,  as  his  secretary,  and  the  offer  was  at  once 
accepted,  though  it  must  have  cost  the  poet  something 
to  tear  himself  away  from  the  centre  of  life  and  learn- 
ing, from  the  society  he  so  enjoyed,  to  bury  himself  in 
a country  regarded  as  only  half  civilised,  and  which  at 
that  very  time  was  in  open  rebellion.  He  left  behind 
him  Merrie  England,  with  all  that  was  pleasant  to 
him,  when  he  went  to  Ireland,  which  was  then  in  a 
most  turbulent  and  rebellious  condition,  and  for  the 
time  being  his  writing  had  to  be  laid  aside  for  sterner 
stuff.  But  all  honour  to  him  that  he  chose  work  rather 
than  dependence. 

Lord  Grey  de  Wilton  did  not  succeed  any  better  than 
his  predecessors  had  done.  Naturally  kind-hearted,  he 
nevertheless  deemed  it  his  duty  to  carry  out  a policy 
of  great  severity,  and  himself  almost  a Puritan  in  his 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


221 


religious  views,  he  saw  no  hope  for  the  distressful  country 
until  Protestantism  reigned  there.  Spenser  adopted  the 
same  opinions  as  his  master,  and  pitiless  force  was  the 
only  weapon  used  in  the  warfare.  Of  course  it  availed 
nothing,  and  Lord  Grey  was  recalled,  more  or  less  under 
a cloud,  for  he  had  many  enemies  at  home  among  those 
who  found  him  too  uncompromisingly  straightforward 
and  honourable,  as  well  as  among  those  who  con- 
demned his  fanatical  severity  and  his  ruthlessly  heavy 
hand.  Spenser,  who  stayed  behind  in  Ireland,  always 
remained  loyal  to  him,  and  sturdily  defended  that  “ most 
just  and  honourable  personage,  whose  least  virtues,  of 
many  most  excellent,  which  abounded  in  his  heroical 
spirit,  they  were  never  able  to  aspire  to,  who  with  evil 
tongues  did  most  untruly  and  maliciously  backbite  and 
slander  him.” 

For  the  next  few  years  the  poet  held  various  clerk- 
ships and  other  posts,  and  at  last  he  became  the  posses- 
sor of  Kilcolman  Castle,  where  he  lived  for  some  time, 
devoting  his  spare  hours  to  the  great  work  he  so  long 
had  in  contemplation,  “The  Faerie  Queene.”  In  1590 
he  got  permission  to  return  for  awhile  to  England  that 
he  might  publish  that  part  of  his  book  which  he  had 
finished,  a permission  he  owed  to  Raleigh,  who  had 
read  much  of  the  work  when  staying  as  hi3  guest  in 
Ireland,  and  who  with  generous  sympathy  longed  to 
give  to  the  poet  the  fame  which  was  so  justly  his. 
Thanks  to  him,  too,  the  Queen  listened  to  some  portions 
of  the  poem,  and  was  greatly  delighted  with  the  many 


222  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


references  made  to  herself.  For  Spenser  had  learnt 
how  to  Hatter  gracefully  in  his  verse,  and  had  realised 
that  to  find  favour  in  the  Queen’s  eyes  he  would  do 
well 

“ To  lyken  her  to  a crowne  of  lillies 
Upon  a virgin  bryde’s  adorned  head, 

With  roses  dight  and  goolds  and  daffadillies  ; 

Or  like  the  circlet  of  a Turtle  true 
In  which  alle  colours  of  the  rainbow  bee. 

Or  like  faire  Phebes’  garland  shining  new, 

In  which  alle  pure  perfection  one  may  see. 

But  vain  it  is  to  think  by  paragone 
Of  earthly  things,  to  judge  of  things  Divine.” 

He  had  dedicated  his  book  to  her,  “ The  most  High, 
Mightie,  and  Magnificent  Empress,  renowned  for 
Pietie,  Virtue,  and  alle  gracious  Government ; ” and 
at  the  end  of  the  dedication  expressed  the  humble 
hope  that  “ thus  his  labours  might  live  with  the  eternity 
of  her  fame.”  Elizabeth  smiled  graciously  on  one  who 
added  such  glory  to  her  court,  and  gave  Spenser  a 
pension  of  .£50.  “ The  Faerie  Queene  ” was  greeted 

with  a chorus  of  enthusiastic  praise,  and  the  pub- 
lisher, who  in  an  introduction  had  begged  gentle 
readers  to  “ graciouslie  entertain  the  new  Poet,”  had 
no  reason  to  complain  of  the  warm  welcome  given 
to  him. 

Of  course,  the  work  was  an  allegory,  a double 
allegory,  so  to  speak ; for  besides  having  a general 
meaning  to  his  story,  he  had  a special  one  which  re- 
ferred to  living  people,  such  as  the  Queen,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  Lord  Grey,  and  so  on.  The  whole  poem, 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


223 


therefore,  is  rather  complicated,  and  in  great  contrast 
to  the  well-arranged  plots  which  Chaucer  had  woven 
into  his  stories.  The  general  idea  was  that  in  a 
certain  happy  country  there  reigned  a great  Queen 
Gloriana,  around  whose  presence  had  gathered  a body 
of  brave  and  fearless  knights.  The  queen  decided 
to  hold  a feast  for  twelve  days,  and  on  each  day 
an  adventure  was  to  be  undertaken  by  one  of  these 
knights  for  the  purpose  of  righting  some  wrong, 
releasing  some  captive,  or  succouring  some  oppressed 
person.  Spenser  purposed  to  tell  of  these  several  ad- 
ventures in  twelve  books,  but  only  six  were  finished. 
Now  if  in  “ The  Faerie  Queene  ” we  attempt  to  unravel 
the  very  knotted  allegory,  we  shall  soon  get  into  difficul- 
ties, for  Spenser’s  greatest  gifts  did  not  lie  in  his  power 
of  making  a clear  story,  but  in  his  perfectly  chosen 
language,  his  lofty  thoughts,  and  the  never-failing  music 
of  his  verse.  So  the  wisest  plan,  I think,  is  to  read  the 
romances  for  their  own  beauty  without  trying  to  find 
a hidden  meaning  in  every  line,  and  even  so,  we  shall 
everywhere  discover  rich  gems. 

It  is  strange  that  in  spite  of  all  the  fame  which 
“ The  Faerie  Queene  ” gave  the  poet,  it  brought  him 
neither  wealth  nor  even  work,  and  he  “ tourned  back 
to  his  sheepe  ” in  Ireland.  He  married,  and  poured  out 
his  joy  in  an  exquisite  song  called  “ Epithalamion.” 
Besides  this,  he  wrote  more  books  of  his  great  work, 
many  sonnets  and  hymns,  and  a treatise  on  Ireland. 
He  was  made  Sheriff  of  Cork,  and  altogether  his  worldly 
affairs  prospered;  for  Burleigh  was  dead,  and  it  was 


224  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Burleigh  who  had  always  checked  the  Queen’s  generosity 
towards  him,  “ saying  a song  needed  not  such  liberal 
payment.”  Suddenly  a fresh  and  violent  rebellion  broke 
out  in  Ireland.  Spenser’s  castle  was  attacked  and  set 
on  fire ; his  little  child  was  burned  to  death ; and  all 
his  valued  possessions  were  destroyed.  He  came  back 
to  London  with  his  wife,  homeless,  penniless,  broken- 
hearted. Over  the  next  few  months  a veil  is  drawn ; 
how  it  came  to  pass  that  his  many  friends  and  admirers 
knew  nothing  of  his  sufferings,  or  knowing  did  not  raise 
a hand  to  help  him,  remains  a mystery.  This  is  certain, 
that  he  died  of  grief  and  for  lack  of  bread  in  a street 
near  Westminster.  After  his  death,  indeed,  his  friends 
came  to  the  fore  once  more.  The  Earl  of  Essex  paid 
all  the  expenses  of  his  funeral,  which  took  place  in  the 
Abbey.  • Poets  and  writers  flocked  to  his  grave-side, 
throwing  on  to  his  coffin  their  songs  of  woe.  We  may 
take  it  for  granted  that  Shakespeare  was  among  the 
mourners,  and  with  him  were  all  the  brightest  spirits 
of  the  day.  Truly  the  broken-hearted  poet  was  well 
honoured  on  that  last  event  of  his  life.  At  some 
period  of  his  career,  probably  near  the  end,  he  had 
written  a poem  on  “ Change  and  Mutabilitie.”  God 
grant  that  in  those  bitter  closing  days  he  found  the 
ray  of  hope  he  thus  did  sing  of : — 

“ Then  gin  I think  on  that  which  Nature  sayd, 

Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  Change  shall  he, 

But  stedfast  rest  of  all  things  firmly  stayd, 

Upon  the  Pillars  of  Eternitie, 

That  is  contrayr  to  Mutabilitie. 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


225 


For  all  that  movetli  does  in  change  delight : 

But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 
With  Him,  that  is  the  God  of  Sabbaoth  bight : 

0 that  great  Sabbaoth  God,  grant  me  that  Sabbaotli’s  sight.” 

True  it  is  that  Spenser,  the  herald  of  the  Elizabethan 
day,  gives  to  the  Poets’  Corner  the  reflected  glory  of  that 
period,  but  we  can  never  cease  to  regret  that  Shake- 
speare, its  crown  and  its  sun,  lies  so  far  away  from  West- 
minster. Only  the  Abbey  seems  a fitting  monument  to 
that  great  mind,  our  king  of  English  literature. 

“ Thou  art  a monument  without  a tomb, 

And  art  alive  while  still  thy  books  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give.” 

So  wrote  Ben  Jonson.  With  that  thought,  and  the  fact 
that,  a hundred  and  twenty  years  after  his  death,  a 
memorial  to  Shakespeare  was  put  up  in  the  Poets’  Corner 
by  public  subscription,  we  must  rest  content.  Ben 
Jonson  himself  was  buried  here,  having  in  his  imperious 
way  demanded  of  the  king  “ eighteen  inches  of  ground 
in  the  Abbey,”  and  so  he  remained  in  death  “ a child  of 
Westminster.”  He  had  been  educated  at  Westminster 
School,  this  turbulent,  strong-spirited  lad,  with  Border 
blood  in  him,  who  could  never  settle  down  to  the  trade 
of  a builder,  to  which  he  had  been  apprenticed,  and 
who  was  heard  of  among  actors  and  playwriters.  He 
was  the  friend  of  Shakespeare ; indeed,  it  is  said  that 
the  great  man  not  only  warmly  praised  his  first  play; 
“ Every  Man  in  his  Humour,”  but  acted  in  it  himself  at 
the  Globe  Theatre.  Jonson  produced  a great  number  of 
plays  and  a still  greater  number  of  court  masques.  He 


226  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


was  a master  of  plot,  and  everything  he  wrote  was  full 
of  force  and  personality.  Such  a fiery  character  as  his 
could  hardly  fail  to  lead  him  into  a series  of  quarrels ; 
but,  in  spite  of  this,  he  was  held  by  his  large  circle  of 
friends  to  be  “ the  prince  of  good  fellows,”  and  the 
words,  “ 0 rare  Ben  Jonson,”  carved  on  his  tomb  by 
order  of  Sir  John  Young,  “who,  walking  here  when  the 
grave  was  covering,  gave  the  fellow  eighteenpence  to 
cut  it,”  is  an  epitaph  that  came  from  the  hearts  of  those 
who  loved  him  and  recognised  his  genius.  Francis  Beau- 
mont, another  Elizabethan  playwriter,  and  the  intimate 
friend  of  the  whole  group  of  dramatists,  lies  here ; as 
does  Michael  Drayton,  who  wrote  more  than  one  hundred 
thousand  lines  of  verse,  and  who,  despite  the  fact  that 
he  was  always  quarrelling  with  his  booksellers,  whom 
he  described  as  “ a company  of  base  knaves  I scorn 
to  kick,”  was  known  among  his  contemporaries  as  the 
“ all-loved  Drayton.”  Abraham  Cowley,  held  in  his  day 
to  be  a great  poet,  had  a magnificent  funeral  and  a most 
flattering  epitaph,  but  though  one  enthusiastic  admirer 
went  so  far  as  to  declare  that  the  Great  Fire  left  the 
Abbey  untouched  because  Fate  would  that  Cowley’s 
tomb  should  be  preserved,  his  works  did  not  long 
survive  him.  Close  to  him  was  laid  John  Dryden,  who 
as  a boy  had  been  well  whipped  by  the  great  Doctor 
Busby.  He  says  himself  that  he  “ endeavoured  to 
write  good  English,”  and  he  produced  several  plays  and 
some  excellent  political  satires.  He  was  not  a great 
poet,  but  he  had  the  knack  of  reasoning  well  in  verse, 
of  choosing  apt  words,  and  of  writing  vigorously.  And 


From  fhoto  S.  B.  Bolas  & Co. 


Poets’  Corner. 


......  a.'.- 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


227 


we  must  remember  that  he  lived  in  the  days  of  the  later 
Stuarts,  when  poets  had  well-nigh  forgotten  the  sweet 
music  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  Near  to  his  tomb  stands 
the  bust  of  his  bitter  enemy,  Shadwell,  of  whom  he  had 
written : — 

“ Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  all  stupidity. 

The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  made  pretence, 

But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense.” 

Even  so  did  the  Abbey  unite  these  rival  poets- 
laureate. 

Another  satirist,  Samuel  Butler,  has  a monument, 
but  not  a tomb,  in  the  Abbey.  He  also  died  in  abject 
poverty,  and  of  him  these  lines  were  written,  which  apply 
to  more  than  one  of  those  commemorated  in  the  Poets’ 
Corner : — 

“ When  Butler,  needy  wretch,  was  yet  alive, 

No  generous  patron  would  a dinner  give. 

Behold  him  starved  to  death  and  turned  to  dust, 

Presented  with  a monumental  bust. 

The  poet’s  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown  : 

He  asked  for  bread,  and  he  received  a stone.” 

Thomas  May,  the  historian;  Davenant,  the  Royalist 
poet-laureate ; Sir  John  Denham,  a Royalist  versifier, 
and  John  Phillips,  a devoted  imitator  of  Milton,  are  little 
more  than  names  to  us ; but  then  we  must  remember 
that,  with  few  exceptions,  neither  the  poets  nor  the 
poetry  of  that  period  which  ended  with  the  death  of 
William  III.  have  lived  on  through  our  literature. 
With  the  accession  of  Anne  there  came  a burst  of  new 
life,  and  the  next  great  name  we  come  to  in  the  Abbey 


228  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


is  that  of  Joseph  Addison,  the  most  charming  of  our 
prose  writers.  To  find  his  grave,  however,  we  must 
leave  the  Poets’  Corner  and  go  to  General  Monk’s  vault 
in  Henry  VII. ’s  Chapel.  For  here,  close  to  his  friend 
Charles  Montagu,  Lord  Keeper,  he  of  “ piercing  wit, 
gentle  irony,  and  sparkling  humour,”  the  regular 
contributor  to  our  two  earliest  newspapers,  the 
Tatler  and  the  Spectator , was  buried.  His  own 
words,  from  an  article  in  the  Spectator  when  it  was 
about  twelve  days  old,  best  describe  both  the  man 
and  his  aims : “ It  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I 
hear  this  great  city  enquiring  day  by  day  after  these 
my  papers,  and  receiving  my  morning  lectures  with  a 
becoming  seriousness  and  attention.  My  publisher  tells 
me  that  already  three  thousand  of  them  are  distributed 
every  day,  so  that  if  I allow  twenty  readers  to  every 
paper,  I may  reckon  about  threescore  thousand  disciples 
in  London  and  Westminster,  who,  I hope,  will  take  care 
to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  thoughtless  herd  of 
their  ignorant  and  unattentive  brethren.  I shall  spare 
no  pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable  and  their 
diversion  useful.  For  which  reason  I shall  endeavour 
to  enliven  morality  with  wit  and  to  temper  wit  with 
morality.  ...  I have  resolved  to  refresh  their  memories 
from  day  to  day,  till  I have  recovered  them  from  that 
desperate  state  of  folly  and  vice  into  which  the  age  is 
fallen.  The  mind  that  lies  fallow  but  a single  day 
sprouts  up  in  follies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by 
assiduous  culture.  It  was  said  of  Socrates  that  he 
brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven  to  inhabit  among 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


229 


men,  and  I shall  he  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of  me  that 
I brought  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools 
and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea- 
tables  and  in  coffee-houses.”  Then,  having  given  his 
general  aim,  he  goes  on  to  especially  commend  his  paper 
to  all  well-regulated  families ; to  those  gentlemen  of 
leisure  who  consider  the  world  a theatre,  and  desire  to 
form  a right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on 
it;  and  to  those  “ poor  souls  called  the  blanks  of  society, 
who  are  altogether  unfurnished  with  ideas,  who  ask  the 
first  men  they  meet  if  there  is  any  news  stirring,  and 
who  know  not  what  to  talk  about  till  twelve  o’clock  in 
the  morning,  by  which  time  they  are  pretty  good  judges 
of  the  weather,  and  know  which  way  the  wind  sets;” 
while  finally  he  appeals  to  the  female  world : “ I have 
often  thought,”  he  says,  “ that  there  has  not  been  suffi- 
cient pains  taken  to  find  out  proper  employments  and 
diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements  seem 
contrived  for  them  rather  as  they  are  women  than  as 
they  are  reasonable  creatures.  The  toilet  is  their  great 
scene  of  business,  and  the  right  adjusting  of  their  hair 
the  principal  employment  of  their  lives.  This,  I say,  is 
the  state  of  ordinary  women,  though  I know  there  are 
multitudes  of  those  that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of 
knowledge  and  virtue,  and  that  join  all  the  beauties  of 
mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress.  I hope  to  increase  the 
number  of  those  by  publishing  this  daily  paper,  which 
I shall  always  endeavour  to  make  an  innocent  entertain- 
ment, and  by  that  means  at  least  divert  the  minds  of 
my  female  readers  from  far  greater  trifles.” 


230  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Faithfully  and  yet  very  pleasantly  did  Addison  carry 
out  his  scheme.  His  humour  was  always  kindly,  his  good 
sense  was  unvarying,  his  thoughts  were  always  generous 
and  true,  and  his  easy  unaffected  language  completed 
the  charm.  Instead  of  dropping  to  the  level  of  his 
readers,  he  raised  them  to  the  much  higher  level  on 
which  he  himself  stood,  and  this  without  dull  lecturin'? 
or  violent  denunciations.  Religion,  duty,  love,  honour, 
purity,  truth,  kindliness,  and  public-spiritedness  were 
all  real  things  to  him,  aud  he  sought  to  make  them 
everywhere  realities  too,  gilding  his  little  moral  pills  so 
cleverly,  that  until  they  were  swallowed  no  one  knew 
they  were  pills,  and  then  they  left  nothing  but  a sweet 
taste  behind. 

“ About  an  age  ago,”  he  writes,  “ it  was  the  fashion 
in  England  for  every  one  who  would  be  thought  religious 
to  throw  as  much  sanctity  as  possible  into  his  face.  The 
saint  was  of  a sorrowful  countenance,  and  generally  was 
eaten  up  with  melancholy.  I do  not  presume  to  tax 
such  characters  with  hypocrisy,  as  is  done  too  frequently, 
that  being  a vice  which,  I think,  none  but  He  who 
knows  the  secrets  of  men’s  hearts  should  pretend  to 
discover  in  another.  But  I think  they  would  do  well 
to  consider  whether  such  a behaviour  does  not  deter 
men  from  religion.  ...  In  short,  those  who  represent 
religion  in  so  unamiable  a light  are  like  the  spies  sent 
out  by  Moses  to  make  a discovery  in  the  Land  of 
Promise,  when  by  their  reports  they  discouraged  the 
people  from  entering  upon  it.  Those  that  show  us  the 
joys,  the  cheerfulness,  the  good-humour  that  naturally 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


231 


spring  up  in  this  happy  state  are  like  the  spies  bringing 
along  with  them  clusters  of  grapes  and  delicious  fruits 
that  so  invited  their  companions  into  the  pleasant 
country  which  produced  them.” 

Two  of  his  articles  have  Westminster  Abbey  for  their 
subject.  On  one  occasion  Addison,  as  the  Spectator, 
goes  there  for  a walk,  and  thus  describes  his  feelings : — 
“ I yesterday  passed  a whole  afternoon  in  the  Cloisters 
and  the  Church  . . . And  I began  to  consider  with 
myself  what  innumerable  multitudes  of  people  lay  con- 
fused under  the  pavement  of  that  ancient  cathedral ; 
how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests  and 
soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries  were  crumbled  one 
against  the  other ; how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth, 
with  old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistin- 
guished in  the  same  heap  of  matter.  . . . Some  of 
the  monuments  were  covered  with  such  extravagant 
epitaphs  that,  if  it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person 
to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the 
praises  which  his  friends  bestowed  on  him.  There  were 
others  so  excessively  modest  that  they  deliver  the 
character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew 
so  that  they  are  not  understood  once  in  a twelvemonth. 
I found  there  were  poets  which  had  no  monuments,  and 
monuments  which  had  no  poets.  . . . Sir  Cloudesley 
Shovel’s  monument  gave  me  great  offence.  Instead  of  the 
brave,  rough  English  admiral,  which  was  the  distinguish- 
ing character  of  that  plain  gallant  man,  he  is  represented 
on  his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a beau,  dressed  in  a long 
periwig,  and  reposing  himself  upon  velvet  cushions 


232  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


under  a canopy  of  state.  The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt 
to  despise  for  want  of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater 
taste.  . . . The  monuments  of  their  admirals  which 
have  been  erected  at  the  public  expense  represent  them 
like  themselves,  and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns  and 
naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons  of  seaweed, 
shells,  and  coral.  When  I look  upon  the  tombs  of  the 
great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me ; when  I read 
the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes 
out ; when  I meet  with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a 
tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  compassion ; when  I 
see  the  tombs  of  the  parents  themselves,  I consider  the 
vanity  of  grieving  for  those  that  we  must  quickly  follow. 
When  I see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them, 
when  I consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the 
holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests 
and  disputes,  I reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment 
on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and  debates  of  man- 
kind. When  I read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs, 
of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred 
years  ago,  I consider  that  great  day  when  we  shall 
all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance 
together.” 

The  next  visit  Spectator  paid  to  the  Abbey  was  in 
the  company  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  his  own  creation, 
that  gentleman  of  ancient  descent,  whose  “ singularities 
proceeded  from  his  good  sense,  and  were  contradictions 
to  the  manners  of  the  world  only  as  he  thought  the 
world  was  in  the  wrong,”  and  who  was  such  a great  lover 
of  mankind,  with  such  a mirthful  cast  iu  his  behaviour, 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


233 


so  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty,  that  “ his  tenants  grew  rich, 
his  servants  were  satisfied,  all  young  women  professed 
love  to  him,  and  the  young  men  were  glad  of  his  com- 
pany.” The  squire  was  now  spending  one  of  his  frequent 
visits  to  London,  and  informed  the  Spectator  that  having 
read  his  paper  on  Westminster  Abbey,  he  should  like  to 
go  there  with  him,  never  having  visited  the  tombs  since 
he  read  history. 

“ As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church,  the  knight 
pointed  at  the  trophies  on  one  of  the  new  monuments, 
and  cried  out,  ‘ A brave  man  ! I warrant  him  ! ’ Passing 
afterwards  by  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  he  flung  his  head 
that  way,  and  cried,  ‘ Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  a very 
gallant  man ! ’ As  we  stood  before  Busby’s  tomb  the 
knight  uttered  himself  again  after  the  same  manner. 
‘Doctor  Busby,  a great  man!  He  whipped  my  grandfather; 
I should  have  gone  to  him  myself,  if  I had  not  been  a 
blockhead.  A very  great  man  ! ’ Among  several  other 
figures  he  was  very  well  pleased  to  see  the  statesman 
Cecil  upon  his  knees.  ...  Sir  Roger,  in  the  next  place, 
laid  his  hand  upon  Edward  III.’s  sword,  and  leaning 
upon  the  pommel  of  it  gave  us  the  whole  history  of  the 
Black  Prince,  concluding  that,  in  Sir  Richard  Baker’s 
opinion,  Edward  III.  was  one  of  the  greatest  princes 
that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne.  We  were  then 
shown  Edward  the  Confessor’s  tomb,  upon  which  Sir 
Roger  acquainted  us  that  he  was  the  first  who  touched 
for  the  evil,  and  afterwards  Henry  IY.’s,  upon  which  he 
shook  his  head,  and  told  us  there  was  fine  reading  in  the 
casualties  of  that  reign.  Our  conductor  then  pointed  to 


234  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


that  monument  where  there  is  the  figure  of  one  of  our 
English  kings  without  a head,  and  upon  giving  us  to 
know  that  the  head,  which  was  of  beaten  silver,  had 
been  stolen  away  years  before,  ‘ Some  Whig,  I war- 
rant you  ! ’ says  Sir  Roger.  ‘ You  ought  to  lock  your 
kings  up  better.  They  will  carry  off  the  body,  too,  if 
you  don’t  take  care  ! ’ The  glorious  names  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  Henry  V.  gave  the  knight  great  oppor- 
tunies  of  shining.  For  my  own  part,  I could  not  but  be 
pleased  to  see  the  knight  show  such  an  honest  passion 
for  the  glory  of  his  country,  and  such  a respectful  grati- 
tude to  the  memory  of  its  princes.” 

Addison  died  when  under  fifty  years  of  age,  and  the 
story  goes  that  in  his  last  moments  he  sent  for  young 
Lord  Warwick,  his  stepson. 

“ Dear  sir,”  said  the  lad,  “ any  commands  you  may 
give  me,  I shall  hold  most  sacred.” 

“ See  in  what  peace  a Christian  can  die,”  answered  the 
older  man  tenderly. 

Years  before,  in  his  first  letter  as  Spectator,  he  had 
written  these  honest  words,  “ If  I can  in  any  way  con- 
tribute to  the  improvement  of  the  country  in  which  I 
live,  I shall  leave  it,  when  I am  summoned  out  of  it, 
with  the  secret  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I have  not 
lived  in  vain.”  And  the  knowledge  that  he  had  been 
true  to  this  pure  ambition  brought  him  a calm  content 
in  that  hour  when  all  the  things  of  this  life  vanished  into 
the  dim  background. 

His  funeral  in  the  Abbey  has  been  thus  vividly  de- 
scribed by  Tickell,  his  friend  : — 


THE  POETS’  CORNER 


235 


“ Can  I forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 
My  soul’s  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  ? 

How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 

By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 

Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors  and  through  walks  of  kings  ! 
What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  march  inspire, 

The  pealing  organ  and  the  pausing  choir  ; 

The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid 
And  the  last  words  that  dust  to  dust  conveyed  ! 

While  speechless  o’er  the  closing  grave  we  bend — 
Accept  those  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend  ! 

Oh,  gone  for  ever,  take  this  last  adieu, 

And  sleep  in  peace  next  thy  loved  Montagu.” 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN 

Near  together  and  under  the  shadow  of  Shakespeare’s 
monument  lie  three  men  whose  lives  brought  them 
into  close  contact  with  each  other : David  Garrick,  the 
actor  and  manager ; Dr.  Samuel  J ohnson,  the  critic  and 
conversationalist ; and  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  prince 
of  playwriters  and  parliamentary  orators.  Little  Davy 
Garrick  was  the  first  of  the  trio  on  whom  the  curtain 
fell,  and  his  funeral  in  the  Abbey,  which  took  place 
on  the  ist  of  February  1779,  was  a most  imposing 
one.  The  streets  were  crowded  with  people  gathered 
to  see  the  last  of  him  they  had  so  delighted  in  applaud- 
ing. The  procession  extended  far  down  into  the  Strand ; 
players  from  Drury  Lane  and  Covent  Garden  mourned 
the  kindliest  and  most  lovable  of  comrades ; seven 
carriages  were  filled  with  the  members  of  the  Literary 
Club,  and  round  the  grave  stood  Edmund  Burke,  Charles 
James  Fox,  Sheridan,  Dr.  Johnson,  with  many  another 
distinguished  man.  That  was  a day  of  triumph  for  the 
English  stage.  True,  indeed,  other  players  had  been 
buried  in  Westminster — Anne  Oldfield,  who  lies  in 
the  nave ; Anne  Bracegirdle  and  Mr.  Cibber,  whose 
graves  are  in  the  cloisters — but  the  death  of  David 

236 


Barry. 


Walker  & Cockerell. 


Dr  Samuel  Johnson. 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  237 


Garrick  was  accounted  a national  loss,  and  all  desired 
to  honour  him,  under  whose  wise  guidance  “ the  drama 
had  risen  from  utter  chaos  into  order,  fine  actors  had  been 
trained,  fine  plays  had  been  written  for  the  fine  actors 
to  act,  and  fine,  never-failing  audiences  had  assembled 
to  see  the  fine  plays  which  the  fine  actors  had  acted,” 
It  has  often  been  said  that  even  had  he  been  neither 
an  actor  nor  a public  character  his  name  would  have 
gone  down  to  future  generations  as  a perfect  English 
gentleman,  so  great  was  the  spell  of  his  charm  and 
his  influence.  He  was  born  in  an  inn  at  Hereford 
in  the  year  1716,  the  son  of  a penniless  officer  in 
the  dragoons,  who  had  married  Miss  Isabella  Clough, 
the  equally  penniless  daughter  of  the  vicar-choral  of 
Lichfield  Cathedral.  The  lieutenant  had  to  serve  at 
Gibraltar,  and  little  David,  a bright  lad,  ever  ready 
with  a witty  answer,  got  his  early  education  in  a free 
school  at  Lichfield,  presided  over  by  a master  who  used 
the  rod  freely,  “ to  save  his  boys  from  the  gallows,”  as 
he  assured  them  for  their  comfort.  An  older  boy  at 
the  same  school  was  Samuel  Johnson,  the  son  of  a 
highly  respected  bookseller  in  Lichfield.  In  spite  of 
the  great  difference  in  their  ages,  he  became  David’s 
friend,  and  together  they  used  to  patronise  such  plays 
as  the  companies  of  strolling  players  brought  within 
their  reach,  the  acting  taking  place  in  such  barns  as 
were  available.  David,  full  of  enterprise,  organised  and 
drilled  a little  company  of  his  own  when  he  was  barely 
eleven,  which  company  performed  a play  called  “ The 
Recruiting  Officer,”  to  the  admiration  of  a large  and 


238  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


interested  audience,  composed  mainly  of  parents.  But 
funds  did  not  allow  of  many  such  pastimes,  and  a year 
later  David  was  sent  out  to  Portugal  to  work  in  the 
office  of  an  uncle,  a prosperous  wine  merchant  there. 
Never  was  boy  more  unfit  for  the  daily  routine  of  an 
'office,  a fact  which,  fortunately,  his  uncle  soon  recog- 
nised, for  in  a few  months  he  was  back  again  in 
Lichfield,  slightly  in  disgrace,  it  is  true,  and  was  sent 
to  his  old  school  that  “ discipline  might  repair  his 
deficiencies.” 

Young  Johnson,  who  by  now  had  returned  from  Ox- 
ford, had,  thanks  to  the  assistance  of  a wealthy  friend, 
Mr.  Walmesley,  set  up  a school  of  his  own  in  the 
town,  dignified  by  the  name  of  “ The  Academy.” 
At  this  seat  of  learning  Garrick  studied  for  a while, 
and  years  afterwards  he  wrote  of  his  solemn  ponderous 
master,  “ I honoured  him,  he  endured  me.”  But 
the  academy  did  not  prosper,  and  Johnson,  who  had 
already  begun  to  write,  determined  to  try  his  fate  in 
London.  Thither,  too,  young  Garrick  was  bent,  for  it 
had  been  decided  that  he  was  to  study  law,  and  kind 
Mr.  Walmesley  had  arranged  to  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  special  instruction  he  would  need,  declaring  him 
to  be  “ of  a good  disposition,  and  as  ingenious  and 
promising  a young  man  as  ever  I knew  in  my  life.” 
So  together  they  set  out,  and  together  they  lived 
for  awhile,  Johnson  finding  a scanty  livelihood  as  a 
bookseller’s  assistant,  David  working  as  a student  of 
Lincoln’s  Inn. 

Soon  afterwards  Captain  Garrick  died,  and  at  the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  239 


same  time  died  also  the  rich  wine  merchant  uncle, 
who  left  a fair  sum  of  money  to  his  brother’s  children, 
with  a special  legacy  to  David,  of  whom  he  had  been 
particularly  fond.  Then  it  was  th^t  for  the  first 
time  the  boy’s  ambition  took  definite  shape : he  knew 
there  was  only  one  life  and  one  career  for  him,  and 
that  was  summed  up  in  the  stage.  His  mother,  though, 
shrank  in  horror  from  the  idea,  and  to  his  eternal 
credit,  rather  than  add  to  her  sorrows,  he  set  aside 
his  own  wishes,  and  made  one  more  desperate  effort 
to  please  his  family  by  going  into  the  wine  business, 
as  the  London  manager,  with  his  brother  Peter.  Even 
in  so  doing,  theatrical  life  pursued  him,  for  his  wines 
were  so  patronised  by  the  coffee-houses  and  clubs  to 
which  the  actors  resorted,  that  he  considered  it  part  of 
his  business  to  amuse  and  entertain  his  customers  by 
“ standing  on  the  tables  at  the  clubs  to  give  his  divert- 
ing and  loudly  applauded  mimicries.”  To  make  a long 
story  short,  the  genius  that  was  in  David  would  not 
allow  him  to  settle  down  to  a wine  merchant’s  career ; 
he  became  restless  and  dissatisfied,  and  one  fine  morn- 
ing twro  letters  fell  like  bombshells  into  the  Garrick 
household  at  Lichfield : one  from  David,  saying  that 
his  mind  was  so  inclined  to  the  stage  that  he  could  no 
longer  resist  it,  and  he  hoped  they  would  all  forgive 
him  when  they  found  he  had  the  genius  of  an  actor ; 
the  other  from  an  old  friend,  who  hastened  to  assure 
the  family  how  great  a success  Davy’s  first  appearance 
had  been,  how  the  audience  was  in  raptures,  and  how 
several  men  of  judgment  had  wondered  that  he  had 


24o  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


kept  off  the  stage  so  long.  Richard  II.  was  the  am- 
bitious part  Garrick  had  undertaken.  “ I played  the 
part  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,”  he  wrote  humbly 
to  his  furious  brother.  “ It  is  what  I doat  upon,  and 
I am  resolved  to  pursue  it.”  The  Daily  Post  had  an 
enthusiastic  notice  about  this  unknown  gentleman  who 
had  never  appeared  before,  “ whose  reception  was  the 
most  extraordinary  and  great  that  was  ever  known, 
whose  voice  was  clear,  without  monotony,  drawling, 
affectation,  bellowing,  or  grumbling ; whose  mien  was 
neither  strutting,  slouching,  stiff,  nor  mincing.”  Pope, 
most  keen  of  critics,  had  watched  him  delightedly 
from  a box.  “That  young  man  never  had  his  equal, 
and  never  will  have  a rival,”  he  remarked ; adding, 
“ I only  fear  lest  he  should  become  vain  and  ruined 
by  applause.” 

But  there  was  a simplicity  of  character  and  a fund 
of  good  sense  in  David  which  saved  him  from  this 
latter  fate,  even  though  he  quickly  became  the  talk 
of  the  town,  the  man  about  whom  the  fashionable 
London  world  went  mad.  After  acting  with  ever- 
increasing  success  in  nineteen  different  parts,  his 
Lopdon  season  came  to  an  end  for  the  time  being, 
and  in  response  to  an  urgent  invitation  he  went  over 
to  Dublin,  where  the  craze  for  him  was  so  intense  that, 
when  a mild  epidemic  broke  out,  it  was  given  the 
name  of  the  Garrick  fever.  A second  visit  to  that  gay 
capital  was  even  more  successful,  and  Garrick  finally 
returned  to  London  with  a clear  £600  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  then  that  various  difficulties  beset  him,  chiefly 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  241 


owing  to  the  bad  management  of  the  theatres  and  the 
endless  quarrels  between  the  principal  actors  of  the  day ; 
but  at  last,  thanks  to  the  many  friends  who  firmly  be- 
lieved in  him,  and  whose  faith  he  never  disappointed, 
he  was  able  to  invest  £ 8000  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
and  to  become  its  manager  as  well  as  its  leading  actor. 
His  determination  was  to  “ get  together  the  best  com- 
pany in  England,”  and  it  is  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  let  no  past  jealousies  or  quarrels  interfere  with  his 
selection.  Even  Macklin,  who  had  violently  attacked 
him  with  tongue  and  pen,  was  engaged,  as  well  as  his 
wife,  and  he  skilfully  smoothed  down  the  sensitive 
feelings  of  the  various  ladies.  He  insisted  on  rehearsals, 
which  hitherto  had  seldom  been  enforced,  and  he  also 
insisted  that  players  should  learn  their  parts,  a very 
necessary  proviso.  On  the  opening  night  he  remem- 
bered the  friend  with  whom  he  had  entered  London, 
when  triumphs  such  as  this  had  been  undreamt  of,  and 
it  was  Dr.  Johnson  whom  he  commissioned  to  write  the 
prologue,  which  he  himself  gave  with  splendid  effect. 
Later  on  he  loyally  did  his  best  to  make  a success  of 
Johnson’s  heavy  and  somewhat  clumsy  play  “ Irene,”  and 
thanks  to  his  efforts  and  the  money  he  freely  spent  on 
its  staging,  it  ran  for  nine  nights,  so  that  the  Doctor 
made  the  sum  of  -£300.  But  with  this  the  author 
was  far  from  satisfied,  and  always  declared  that  the 
actors  had  not  done  justice  to  their  parts! 

It  would  take  too  long  to  dwell  on  the  many  plays 
Garrick  produced,  the  many  parts  he  created,  the  wide 
range  of  writers  new  and  old  he  explored,  and  the 

Q 


242  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


excellent  standard  he  maintained.  Whether  it  was  a 
tragedy  of  Shakespeare’s,  or  a comedy  of  Ben  Jonson’s, 
or  a pantomime,  he  threw  himself  heartily  into  them 
all  and  never  spared  himself.  He  knew  his  public  and 
catered  for  them,  but  at  the  same  time  he  taught  them 
to  understand  and  applaud  the  best.  His  kindness  to 
every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  was  pro- 
verbial ; indeed,  his  greatest  weakness  lay  in  his  good- 
nature. He  could  not  bear  to  vex  people  by  refusing 
them  anything,  and  this  trait  often  landed  him  into  diffi- 
culties with  the  army  of  playwriters  to  whose  entreaties 
that  he  would  produce  their  works  he  seldom  turned  a 
deaf  ear.  And  when  these  plays  were  too  hopelessly 
bad  to  be  dreamt  of,  David  tried  to  soften  the  blow  by 
a gift  of  money,  sometimes  actually  a pension.  As 
might  have  been  expected,  he  had  a wide  circle  of 
acquaintances  from  the  highest  in  the  land  to  the 
poorest  Grub  Street  poets,  and  rarely  was  man  so  well 
liked.  For  in  spite  of  his  weaknesses — and  he  was  rest- 
less and  sensitive  to  the  point  of  touchiness — he  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  unjust  or  ungenerous  to  other 
people,  and  no  thought  of  self  ever  interfered  with  the 
standard  he  had  set  up  for  his  theatre  and  his  own 
profession. 

More  than  once  he  talked  of  retiring,  for  the  strain 
of  his  life  was  heavy,  and  he  looked  forward  to  years 
of  restful  enjoyment  with  his  “ sweet  wife,”  who 
had  been  before  her  marriage  the  celebrated  dancer 
Mademoiselle  Yiolette.  But  the  very  mention  of  such 
an  idea  raised  a storm  of  excitement.  Once  even  the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  243 


king  intervened  when  David  had  taken  an  unusually 
long  holiday,  and  his  Majesty  requested  Mr.  Garrick  to 
shortly  appear  again.  The  night  when,  thus  com- 
manded, he  reappeared  in  “ The  Beggar’s  Opera,”  was 
one  of  his  greatest  triumphs ; again  “ the  town  went 
half  mad,”  and  the  theatre  was  crowded  to  an  alarming 
extent.  All  ideas  of  retirement  vanished  from  David’s 
mind ; the  old  magic  had  not  lost  its  spell,  and  for 
more  than  ten  years  longer  he  went  on  with  his  work 
as  vigorously  as  ever. 

His  fame  became  even  more  widespread,  his  public 
loved  bim  even  more  dearly,  and  from  far-away  country 
places  people  journeyed  to  London  so  that  they  might 
boast  of  once  having  seen  the  great  Mr.  Garrick. 

But  in  1776,  an  illness,  which  he  had  long  kept  at 
bay,  made  itself  felt,  and  he  was  the  first  to  recognise 
that  the  time  had  nearly  come  for  the  curtain  to  fall. 
He  gave  a series  of  his  greatest  representations,  ending 
with  Richard  II.  “ I gained  my  fame  in  Richard,”  he 
said,  “ and  I mean  to  close  with  it.”  Though  he  confessed 
to  being  in  agonies  of  pain,  in  the  eyes  of  his  enraptured 
audience  he  was  as  great  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
palmiest  days  of  success,  as  graceful,  as  winsome,  and  as 
gay.  His  real  farewell  play,  however,  was  “ The  Wonder,” 
in  which  he  took  his  favourite  part,  that  of  Don  Felix, 
and  “ as  his  grand  eyes  wandered  round  the  crowded 
house,  he  saw  a sea  of  faces,  friends,  strangers,  even 
foreigners,  a boundless  amphitheatre  representing  most 
affectionate  sympathies  and  exalted  admiration.  He 
played  as  he  had  never  played  before.  When  the  last 


244  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


note  of  applause  had  died  away,  the  other  actors  left 
the  stage  and  he  stood  there  alone.  The  house  listened 
in  awe-struck  silence.  At  first  he  tried  in  vain  to 
speak;  for  once  the  ready  words  would  not  come  for 
his  calling.  When  at  last  he  went  on  to  thank  his 
friends  for  their  wonderful  kindness  to  him,  he  broke 
down,  and  his  tears  fell  fast.  Sobs  rang  through  the 
theatre.  “ Farewell ! Farewell ! ” was  cried  in  many  a 
quivering  voice.  Mrs.  Garrick  wept  bitterly  in  her 
box,  and  David  slowly  walked  off  the  stage  with  one 
last  wistful  glance  at  the  sea  of  faces  all  around 
him. 

His  interest  in  his  theatre  did  not  cease  after  he 
had  left  it,  and  he  was  disturbed  at  finding  that  the 
new  manager,  Sheridan,  was  sadly  easy-going  and  un- 
business-like. But  there  was  not  much  time  left  for 
such  things  to  trouble  him.  Though  he  kept  up  his 
merry  heart  and  his  sprightly  manner  to  the  end,  and 
though  he  delighted  in  the  undisturbed  companionship 
of  his  wife,  the  disease  gained  rapidly  and  he  suffered 
much  pain.  Gradually  a stupor  crept  over  him,  and 
though  it  sometimes  lifted,  so  that  with  his  old  sweet 
smile  he  had  a jest  or  a word  of  welcome  for  his  friends, 
it  never  cleared,  and  he  passed  gently  away  in  the  early 
dawn  of  a January  morning,  1779,  “leaving  that  human 
stage  where  he  had  played  with  as  much  excellence  and 
dignity  as  ever  he  had  done  on  his  own.” 

So  ended  a prosperous,  pleasant  life,  and  rarely  was 
a man  better  liked  by  his  fellows,  or  more  genuinely 
mourned.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  this  moment,  forgot  all  his 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  245 


later  coldness  towards  the  Davy  he  had  once  so  loved. 
He  left  a card  on  Mrs.  Garrick,  and  “ wished  some 
endeavours  of  his  could  enable  her  to  support  a loss 
which  the  world  cannot  repair ; ” while  he  wrote  those 
well-known  words,  which  Mrs.  Garrick  had  engraved  on 
her  husband’s  memorial  monument  in  Lichfield  Cathedral, 
and  which  form  an  inscription  more  appropriate  than 
that  on  the  Abbey  tomb  : — “ I am  disappointed  by  that 
stroke  of  death,  which  has  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations 
and  impoverished  the  public  stock  of  harmless  pleasure.” 

David’s  devoted  wife  outlived  him  for  over  forty  years, 
keenly  interested  to  the  last  in  all  matters  theatrical,  and 
a well-known  figure  in  the  Abbey,  where,  little  and 
bent,  she  often  made  her  way  to  the  tomb  which  held 
him  she  had  so  loved,  and  standing  there  would  readily 
recount  over  and  over  again  to  willing  listeners  the 
triumphs  of  “ her  Davy.” 

Johnson,  as  we  have  seen,  settled  down  in  London 
with  the  intention  of  making  literature  pay.  “No  man 
but  a blockhead,”  he  said  in  his  strongest  manner, 
“ ever  wrote  except  for  money.”  Perhaps  it  was  for 
opinions  such  as  these  that  his  wife,  more  than  twenty 
years  older  than  himself,  declared  him  to  be  the  most 
sensible  man  that  lived.  A curious  figure  he  must  have 
seemed  to  those  booksellers  of  whom  he  demanded 
work  as  a translator,  mightily  tall  and  broadly  made, 
with  a face  which  he  twirled  and  twisted  about  in  a 
strange  fashion,  features  scarred  by  disease,  eyes  which 
were  of  little  use  to  him,  and  a manner  pompous  and 
overbearing,  though  redeemed  by  a kindliness  of  heart 


246  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


not  to  be  concealed.  But  be  managed  to  struggle 
along,  writing  squibs  or  pamphlets,  reporting  speeches 
in  Parliament,  trying  his  hand  at  plays  or  poetry,  and 
all  the  while  working  away  at  his  Great  Dictionary,  for 
which  when  finished  he  was  to  receive  Y1500,  he  out 
of  that  sum  paying  his  copyists  and  assistants.  He 
founded  a club  at  which  he  began  to  make  his  reputa- 
tion as  a talker,  and  out  of  those  conversations  with 
his  special  friends  there  came  to  him  the  idea  of  start- 
ing a newspaper  on  the  lines  of  Addison’s  Spectator. 
But  Johnson’s  heavy  hand,  his  love  of  long  discourses, 
and  the  natural  melancholy  of  his  nature,  did  not  fit 
him  for  work  such  as  this.  His  Rambler  only  lasted 
for  two  years,  and  certainly  made  him  no  fortune, 
though  it  may  have  helped  him  to  exist  during  that 
time.  His  Dictionary,  when  it  was  at  last  completed, 
gave  him  a surer  position  in  the  literary  world  of 
London,  and  he  was  paid  the  sum  of  £ 100  for  his 
story  of  “ Rasselas,”  but  most  of  this  went  in  paying  for 
the  last  illness  and  funeral  of  his  mother,  and  Johnson 
seems  to  have  been  sadly  in  need  of  money.  Through 
the  influence  of  some  friends,  the  king,  George  III., 
who  declared  that  he  was  most  anxious  to  offer 
“ brighter  prospects  to  men  of  literary  merit,”  proposed 
to  give  Johnson  a pension  of  ^300  a year.  At  first 
he  would  not  hear  of  accepting  it — indeed,  there  was 
a rather  formidable  difficulty  in  the  way,  for  in  his 
Dictionary  lie  had  defined  the  word  pension  as  being 
“ generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a State 
hireling  for  treason  to  his  country.”  However,  the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  247 


explanations  and  persuasions  of  his  friends  at  last 
overcame  the  obstacle,  and  from  that  time  forward 
he  became  one  of  the  best  known  public  characters. 
A favourite  such  as  David  Garrick  he  could  never 
have  aspired  to  be,  and  to  fashionable  folks,  especially 
to  ladies,  he  was  an  untidy,  conceited,  rugged  old  man, 
who  ate  enormous  meals,  drank  sometimes  twenty-five 
cups  of  tea  at  one  sitting,  wore  slovenly  and  dirty 
clothes,  half-burnt  wigs,  and  slippers  almost  in  tatters. 
Then  he  contradicted  flatly,  and  his  anger  was  of  a 
very  vehement  kind  ; though  he  always  declared  him- 
self to  be  a “ most  polite  man,”  and  was  occasionally 
ceremonious  to  a wonderful  degree.  And  yet  as  he 
discoursed,  men  listened  to  him  with  such  pleasure 
that  they  forgot  entirely  his  many  monstrous  failings. 
His  power  of  argument  was  magnificent;  never  could 
man  so  slay  an  adversary  by  his  words  as  could  this 
vigorous,  quarrelsome,  brilliant  talker,  and  though  he 
hit  hard,  he  did  not  hit  cruelly.  There  was  no  venom 
in  his  words,  and  however  violently  he  argued,  he 
never  seems  to  have  lost  a friend  through  it.  On  the 
contrary  his  circle  of  admirers  constantly  grew,  and 
cheerfully  submitted  to  whatever  demands  he  made 
upon  them.  Chief  among  those  friends,  of  course, 
stands  the  faithful  Boswell,  who  idolised  him  with  a 
worship  that  must  have  been  very  wearisome.  If 
Johnson  so  much  as  opened  his  mouth  Boswell  bent 
forward  wild  with  eagerness,  terrified  lest  one  precious 
word  should  escape  him  ; he  sat  as  close  to  him  as 
he  could  get,  he  hung  around  him  like  a dog,  and  no 


?4§  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


amount  of  snubbing  could  damp  his  ardour.  He  de- 
lighted in  asking  his  master  a series  of  such  questions 
as  these : — “ What  would  you  do  if  you  were  shut  up 
in  a castle  with  a new-born  baby  ? ” Or,  “ Why  is  a 
cow’s  tail  long  ? ” 

“I  will  not  be  baited  with  what  and  why,”  Johnson 
would  answer  impatiently.  “ You  have  only  two  subjects, 
yourself  and  me.  I am  sick  of  both.  If  your  presence 
does  not  drive  a man  out  of  his  house,  nothing  will.” 

Johnson’s  daily  life  seems  to  have  been  mapped  out 
in  this  wise.  He  lay  in  bed  late  into  the  morning, 
surrounded  by  an  admiring  circle  of  men  friends,  who 
consulted  him  on  every  particular,  and  listened  respect- 
fully to  all  his  opinions.  He  only  rose  in  time  for  a 
late  dinner  at  some  tavern  which  occupied  most  of  the 
afternoon,  as  other  circles  of  friends  came  to  listen  to 
him.  Then  he  would  drink  tea  at  some  house,  frequently 
spending  the  rest  of  the  evening  there,  unless  he  was 
supping  with  other  acquaintances.  Except  for  his  “ Lives 
of  the  Poets,”  he  wrote  but  little  at  this  period  of  his 
life,  and  said  in  excuse,  “ that  a man  could  do  as  much 
good  by  talking  as  by  writing.” 

Johnson  was  generally  melancholy,  the  result  of  his 
miserable  health  to  a great  extent.  Yet  his  pessimism 
never  affected  his  wonderfully  tender  heart.  Of  his 
pension  he  barely  spent  a third  on  himself.  His  house 
became,  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  the  haven  for  a variety 
of  unfortunate  and  homeless  people,  and  there  lived  in 
it  Miss  Williams,  a blind  lady,  whose  temper  was  not 
sweet ; Levett,  a waiter,  who  had  become  a quack 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  249 


doctor ; Mrs.  Desmoulins,  and  her  daughter,  old  Lich- 
field acquaintances,  and  a certain  Miss  Carmichael. 
Needless  to  say  there  was  very  little  peace  in  that 
household,  and  the  poor  old  Doctor  often  dreaded  going 
home.  “ Williams  hates  everybody,”  he  wrote  to  his 
really  good  friends,  the  Thrales.  “ Levett  hates  Des- 
moulins, and  does  not  love  Williams  ; Desmoulins  hates 
them  both  ; Poll  Carmichael  loves  none  of  them.” 

And  yet  this  “ rugged  old  giant,”  as  he  has  been 
called,  provided  for  them  all,  and  for  many  others  who 
came  and  went  at  their  will,  and  who  grumbled  if  every- 
thing was  not  exactly  to  their  liking.  As  his  bodily 
sufferings  increased,  he  nerved  himself  to  face  the  end  with 
a touchingly  childlike  confidence.  His  thoughts  wandered 
back  to  his  wife.  “ We  have  been  parted  thirty  years,” 
he  said.  “ Perhaps  she  is  now  praying  for  me.  God 
help  me.  God,  Thou  art  merciful,  hear  my  prayers, 
and  enable  me  to  trust  in  Thee.”  Years  before,  when 
wandering  about  the  dark  aisles  with  Goldsmith,  he  had 
pointed  to  the  sleeping  figures  around,  saying,  “ And 
our  names  may  perhaps  be  mixed  with  theirs.”  So  now 
he  was  delighted  when,  in  answer  to  his  question,  he 
was  told  that  he  would  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
“ Do  not  give  me  any  more  physic,”  he  asked  the  doctor 
at  the  very  last ; “ I desire  to  render  up  my  soul  to  God 
unclouded.” 

His  funeral  was  a very  quiet  one,  in  great  con- 
trast to  Garrick’s,  but  his  executors  felt  that  “ a 
cathedral  service  with  lights  and  music  ” would  have 
been  too  costly  ; as  it  was,  the  Dean  and  Chapter  charged 


250  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


high  fees,  and  the  expenses  came  to  more  than  two 
hundred  pounds.  But  Boswell  assures  us  that  a “ re- 
spectable number  of  his  friends  attended,”  and  though 
the  Abbey  holds  many  a greater  name  than  that  of 
Samuel  Johnson,  few  that  sleep  there  carried  a braver, 
kindlier  heart  throughout  a life  of  constant  suffering. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  was  the  son  of  an  actor 
and  manager  who  had  been  driven  from  Ireland,  his 
native  country,  by  a series  of  misfortunes,  and  forced 
to  earn  his  living  in  England  as  a teacher  of  elo- 
cution. Want  of  money,  endless  debts,  a wonderful 
power  of  spending  freely  with  an  entire  absence  of  fore- 
thought, characterised  the  Sheridan  family,  and  young 
Richard  was  brought  up  on  those  very  happy-go-lucky 
principles.  He  was  sent  to  Harrow,  where  his  tutor  said, 
“ The  sources  of  his  infirmities  were  a scanty  and  pre- 
carious allowance  from  the  father ; ” and  when  he  left 
school,  a handsome,  brilliant,  careless  boy  of  seventeen, 
the  state  of  the  family  purse  made  any  further  edu- 
cation out  of  the  question.  His  father  had  settled  in 
Bath,  and  here  Richard  made  the  acquaintance  of  that 
beautiful  girl  and  wonderful  singer,  Elizabeth  Lindley; 
“ the  link  between  an  angel  and  a woman,”  as  an  Irish 
bishop  called  her,  whose  father  also  taught  music  and 
gave  concerts  in  Bath.  She  was  very  unhappy,  as  her 
relations  wished  to  force  her  into  a marriage  with  a rich 
but  elderly  gentleman  whom  she  disliked,  and  in  her 
despair  she  confided  her  troubles  to  Richard  Sheridan, 
the  one  among  her  many  admirers  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  heart.  To  make  a long  story  short,  “ the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  251 


young  couple  fled  together  “ on  a matrimonial  expedi- 
tion,” as  the  London  Chronicle  worded  it;  and  in  spite 
of  all  opposition  they  married,  and  took  up  their  abode 
in  London,  near  Portman  Square.  Though  neither  of 
them  had  any  private  fortune,  Sheridan  refused  to  allow 
his  wife  to  sing  in  public.  This  action  of  his  was 
warmly  discussed  by  Dr.  Johnson’s  friends,  some  of 
whom  said  that  as  the  young  gentleman  had  not  a 
shilling  in  the  world,  he  was  foolishly  delicate  or 
foolishly  proud.  The  Doctor,  however,  applauded  him 
roundly.  “ He  is  a brave  man.  He  resolved  wisely 
and  nobly.  Would  not  a gentleman  be  disgraced  by 
having  his  wife  singing  publicly  for  him  ? No,  sir,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  here.”  But  Sheridan  had  another  sur- 
prise in  store  for  his  friends,  and  suddenly  it  became 
known  that  he  had  written  a play  called  “ The  Rivals,” 
with  which  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  was 
entranced,  a light,  fresh  comedy,  bearing  on  fashionable 
life  in  Bath.  It  was  produced,  and  in  spite  of  its  many 
faults,  chiefly  arising  from  its  having  been  written  in 
such  hot  haste,  it  made  a reputation  for  its  author,  which 
prepared  the  way  for  his  great  triumph  two  years  later, 
when  he  brought  out  “ The  School  for  Scandal,”  still  the 
most  popular  of  English  comedies.  With  it  he  leapt 
into  fame,  and  though  barely  twenty-five,  he  became  the 
man  whose  name  was  in  everybody’s  mouth.  With 
characteristic  airiness  and  vagueness  in  money  matters, 
he  took  upon  himself  the  responsible  duties  of  manager 
to  Drury  Lane  Theatre  after  Garrick  retired,  and  bril- 
liant though  he  was,  his  recklessness  and  want  of  any 


252  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


business  habits,  soon  brought  about  a serious  state  of  chaos 
and  rebellion  there.  This,  however,  seemed  to  disturb 
him  but  little,  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  politics ; 
for  at  the  Literary  Club  he  had  made  many  poli- 
tical friends,  including  Fox,  and  he  proposed  going  into 
Parliament  as  an  independent  member,  though  he  be- 
lieved that  “ either  ministry  or  opposition  would  be 
happy  to  engage  him.”  He  found  a seat  at  Stafford,  and 
freely  promised  employment  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre  to 
those  who  voted  for  him  ; while  the  necessary  money  for 
the  election,  which  of  course  Sheridan  did  not  possess, 
was  provided  by  a gentleman  in  return  for  a share  in  the 
Opera  House.  His  first  speech  was  not  a success,  but 
though  disappointed  he  was  not  daunted. 

“ It  is  in  me,  however,”  he  declared,  “ and  it  shall 
come  out.” 

Within  a very  short  time  the  House  of  Commons  listened 
to  him  as  it  would  listen  to  no  one  else.  By  constant 
practice  he  had  trained  himself  to  speak  perfectly,  and 
true  to  his  Irish  blood,  he  had  a rich  store  of  language, 
a fund  of  wit  and  humour,  and  the  power  of  handling 
every  emotion.  His  great  speech  in  the  Warren  Hastings 
case  lasted  six  hours,  during  the  whole  of  which  time  he 
held  the  House  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  when  he 
continued  his  attack  in  Westminster  Hall,  people  paid 
twenty  guineas  a day  to  hear  him.  “ I cannot  tell  you,” 
wrote  his  devoted  wife  to  her  sister,  “ the  adoration  that 
he  has  excited  in  the  breasts  of  every  class  of  people. 
Every  party  prejudice  has  been  overcome  by  such  a dis- 
play of  genius,  eloquence,  and  goodness.” 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  253 


Sheridan  indeed  was  at  the  height  of  his  glory ; but 
fame  is  a dangerous  pinnacle  for  the  strongest  of  men, 
and  Sheridan  had  no  foundation-stones  of  strength  or 
stability.  His  wife’s  death  was  the  beginning  of  his  fall, 
debt  and  drink  did  the  rest.  All  sense  of  honour  seems 
to  have  left  him  where  money  was  concerned.  His 
actors  could  get  no  payments  save  in  fair  words ; he 
kept  the  money  which  resulted  from  special  benefits ; he 
borrowed  where  he  could,  and  then  plunged  the  more 
deeply  into  debt,  but  he  never  curbed  his  extravagances, 
or  went  without  anything  he  desired,  no  matter  to  what 
means  he  had  to  resort.  His  buoyancy  never  failed  him. 
Even  when  his  theatre  was  burnt  to  the  ground  with  a 
loss  to  him  of  .£200,000,  his  ready  wit  did  not  desert  him. 
He  sat  drinking  his  wine  in  a coffee-house  from  where  he 
could  see  the  flames,  merely  remarking  to  a sympathetic 
friend,  “ A man  likes  to  take  a glass  of  wine  by  his  own 
fireside.”  All  the  latter  part  of  his  life  is  painfully  sad ; 
debt,  poverty,  and  dishonour  hemmed  him  in,  and  ex- 
cessive drinking  brought  on  his  last  illness.  A few 
days  before  his  death  he  was  discovered  almost  starving 
in  an  unfurnished  room.  Even  then  the  bailiffs  were 
about  to  carry  him  away  to  the  debtors’  gaol,  and  only 
the  doctor,  who  stayed  and  nursed  him  to  the  end,  pre- 
vented this  last  disgrace.  The  news  of  his  destitution 
horrified  those  who  remembered  him  in  the  days  of  his 
dazzling  triumphs,  and  in  one  paper  an  eloquent  appeal 
was  made  to  the  public  generosity,  “ that  we  may  prefer 
ministering  in  the  chamber  of  sadness  to  ministering 
at  the  splendid  sorrows  which  adorn  the  hearse.”  In 


254  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


response,  crowds  of  people,  royal  dukes  included, 
flocked  to  leave  delicacies  at  his  lodging.  But  it  was 
too  late  ; the  fitful  life  with  all  its  successes  and  failures 
was  over,  the  shining  eyes  of  which  he  had  been  so 
proud  were  closed  for  ever  now,  the  man  who  had  “ done 
everything  perfectly  ” was  no  more : the  greatest  orator 
of  his  day  was  silent. 

He  had  always  hoped  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  “ where  there  is  very  snug  lying,”  and  if  pos- 
sible next  to  Fox  and  Pitt.  Moreover,  he  had  desired 
that  his  passage  to  the  grave  should  be  quiet  and 
simple.  But  his  friend,  Peter  Moore,  determined  that 
he  should  have  a splendid  funeral ; every  one  was 
invited  and  every  one  came.  The  procession  was  of 
great  length,  and  “ such  an  array  of  rank,  so  great 
a number  of  distinguished  persons  ” had  never  before 
assembled  within  the  memory  of  the  beholders.  There 
was  just  room  for  a single  grave  near  to  where  David 
Garrick  lay,  and  here  Sheridan  was  buried.  While, 
lest  his  name  should  be  all  too  soon  forgotten,  a simply 
worded  tablet  was  immediately  prepared— the  last  tribute 
of  Peter  Moore. 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  241 


owing;  to  the  bad  management  of  the  theatres  and  the 
endless  quarrels  between  the  principal  actors  of  the  day ; 
but  at  last,  thanks  to  the  many  friends  who  firmly  be- 
lieved in  him,  and  whose  faith  he  never  disappointed, 
he  was  able  to  invest  £8000  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
and  to  become  its  manager  as  well  as  its  leading  actor. 
His  determination  was  to  “ get  together  the  best  com- 
pany in  England,”  and  it  is  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  let  no  past  jealousies  or  quarrels  interfere  with  his 
selection.  Even  Macklin,  who  had  violently  attacked 
him  with  tongue  and  pen,  was  engaged,  as  well  as  his 
wife,  and  he  skilfully  smoothed  down  the  sensitive 
feelings  of  the  various  ladies.  He  insisted  on  rehearsals, 
which  hitherto  had  seldom  been  enforced,  and  he  also 
insisted  that  players  should  learn  their  parts,  a very 
necessary  proviso.  On  the  opening  night  he  remem- 
bered the  friend  with  whom  he  had  entered  London, 
when  triumphs  such  as  this  had  been  undreamt  of,  and 
it  was  Dr.  Johnson  whom  he  commissioned  to  write  the 
prologue,  which  he  himself  gave  with  splendid  effect. 
Later  on  he  loyally  did  his  best  to  make  a success  of 
Johnson’s  heavy  and  somewhat  clumsy  play  “ Irene,”  and 
thanks  to  his  efforts  and  the  money  he  freely  spent  on 
its  staging,  it  ran  for  nine  nights,  so  that  the  Doctor 
made  the  sum  of  £300.  But  with  this  the  author 
was  far  from  satisfied,  and  always  declared  that  the 
actors  had  not  done  justice  to  their  parts ! 

It  would  take  too  long  to  dwell  on  the  many  plays 
Garrick  produced,  the  many  parts  he  created,  the  wide 
range  of  writers  new  and  old  he  explored,  and  the 

Q 


242  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

excellent  standard  he  maintained.  Whether  it  was  a 
tragedy  of  Shakespeare’s,  or  a comedy  of  Ben  Jonson’s, 
or  a pantomime,  he  threw  himself  heartily  into  them 
all  and  never  spared  himself.  He  knew  his  public  and 
catered  for  them,  but  at  the  same  time  he  taught  them 
to  understand  and  applaud  the  best.  His  kindness  to 
every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  was  pro- 
verbial ; indeed,  his  greatest  weakness  lay  in  his  good- 
nature. He  could  not  bear  to  vex  people  by  refusing 
them  anything,  and  this  trait  often  landed  him  into  diffi- 
culties with  the  army  of  playwriters  to  whose  entreaties 
that  he  would  produce  their  works  he  seldom  turned  a 
deaf  ear.  And  when  these  plays  were  too  hopelessly 
bad  to  be  dreamt  of,  David  tried  to  soften  the  blow  by 
a gift  of  money,  sometimes  actually  a pension.  As 
might  have  been  expected,  he  had  a wide  circle  of 
acquaintances  from  the  highest  in  the  land  to  the 
poorest  Grub  Street  poets,  and  rarely  was  man  so  well 
liked.  For  in  spite  of  his  weaknesses — and  he  was  rest- 
less and  sensitive  to  the  point  of  touchiness — he  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  unjust  or  ungenerous  to  other 
people,  and  no  thought  of  self  ever  interfered  with  the 
standard  he  had  set  up  for  his  theatre  and  his  own 
profession. 

More  than  once  he  talked  of  retiring,  for  the  strain 
of  his  life  was  heavy,  and  he  looked  forward  to  years 
of  restful  enjoyment  with  his  “ sweet  wife,”  who 
had  been  before  her  marriage  the  celebrated  dancer 
Mademoiselle  Violette.  But  the  very  mention  of  such 
an  idea  raised  a storm  of  excitement.  Once  even  the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  243 


king  intervened  when  David  had  taken  an  unusually 
long  holiday,  and  his  Majesty  requested  Mr.  Garrick  to 
shortly  appear  again.  The  night  when,  thus  com- 
manded, he  reappeared  in  “ The  Beggar’s  Opera,”  was 
one  of  his  greatest  triumphs ; again  “ the  town  went 
half  mad,”  and  the  theatre  was  crowded  to  an  alarming 
extent.  All  ideas  of  retirement  vanished  from  David’s 
mind ; the  old  magic  had  not  lost  its  spell,  and  for 
more  than  ten  years  longer  he  went  on  with  his  work 
as  vigorously  as  ever. 

His  fame  became  even  more  widespread,  his  public 
loved  him  even  more  dearly,  and  from  far-away  country 
places  people  journeyed  to  London  so  that  they  might 
boast  of  once  having  seen  the  great  Mr.  Garrick. 

But  in  1776,  an  illness,  which  he  had  long  kept  at 
bay,  made  itself  felt,  and  he  was  the  first  to  recognise 
that  the  time  had  nearly  come  for  the  curtain  to  fall. 
He  gave  a series  of  his  greatest  representations,  ending 
with  Richard  II.  “ I gained  my  fame  in  Richard,”  he 
said,  “ and  I mean  to  close  with  it.”  Though  he  confessed 
to  being  in  agonies  of  pain,  in  the  eyes  of  his  enraptured 
audience  he  was  as  great  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
palmiest  days  of  success,  as  graceful,  as  winsome,  and  as 
gay.  His  real  farewell  play,  however,  was  “ The  Wonder,” 
in  which  he  took  his  favourite  part,  that  of  Don  Felix, 
and  “ as  his  grand  eyes  wandered  round  the  crowded 
house,  he  saw  a sea  of  faces,  friends,  strangers,  even 
foreigners,  a boundless  amphitheatre  representing  most 
affectionate  sympathies  and  exalted  admiration.  He 
played  as  he  had  never  played  before.  When  the  last 


244  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


note  of  applause  had  died  away,  the  other  actors  left 
the  stage  and  he  stood  there  alone.  The  house  listened 
in  awe-struck  silence.  At  first  he  tried  in  vain  to 
speak;  for  once  the  ready  words  would  not  come  for 
his  calling.  When  at  last  he  went  on  to  thank  his 
friends  for  their  wonderful  kindness  to  him,  he  broke 
down,  and  his  tears  fell  fast.  Sobs  rang  through  the 
theatre.  “ Farewell ! Farewell ! ” was  cried  in  many  a 
quivering  voice.  Mrs.  Garrick  wept  bitterly  in  her 
box,  and  David  slowly  walked  off  the  stage  with  one 
last  wistful  glance  at  the  sea  of  faces  all  around 
him. 

His  interest  in  his  theatre  did  not  cease  after  he 
had  left  it,  and  he  was  disturbed  at  finding  that  the 
new  manager,  Sheridan,  was  sadly  easy-going  and  un- 
business-like. But  there  was  not  much  time  left  for 
such  things  to  trouble  him.  Though  he  kept  up  his 
merry  heart  and  his  sprightly  manner  to  the  end,  and 
though  he  delighted  in  the  undisturbed  companionship 
of  his  wife,  the  disease  gained  rapidly  and  he  suffered 
much  pain.  Gradually  a stupor  crept  over  him,  and 
though  it  sometimes  lifted,  so  that  with  his  old  sweet 
smile  he  had  a jest  or  a word  of  welcome  for  his  friends, 
it  never  cleared,  and  he  passed  gently  away  in  the  early 
dawn  of  a January  morning,  1779,  “leaving  that  human 
stage  where  he  had  played  with  as  much  excellence  and 
dignity  as  ever  he  had  done  on  his  own.” 

So  ended  a prosperous,  pleasant  life,  and  rarely  was 
a man  better  liked  by  his  fellows,  or  more  genuinely 
mourned.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  this  moment,  forgot  all  his 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  245 


later  coldness  towards  the  Davy  he  had  once  so  loved. 
He  left  a card  on  Mrs.  Garrick,  and  “ wished  some 
endeavours  of  his  could  enable  her  to  support  a loss 
which  the  world  cannot  repair ; ” while  he  wrote  those 
well-known  words,  which  Mrs.  Garrick  had  engraved  on 
her  husband’s  memorial  monument  in  Lichfield  Cathedral, 
and  which  form  an  inscription  more  appropriate  than 
that  on  the  Abbey  tomb  : — “ I am  disappointed  by  that 
stroke  of  death,  which  has  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations 
and  impoverished  the  public  stock  of  harmless  pleasure.” 

David’s  devoted  wife  outlived  him  for  over  forty  years, 
keenly  interested  to  the  last  in  all  matters  theatrical,  and 
a well-known  figure  in  the  Abbey,  where,  little  and 
bent,  she  often  made  her  way  to  the  tomb  which  held 
him  she  had  so  loved,  and  standing  there  would  readily 
recount  over  and  over  again  to  willing  listeners  the 
triumphs  of  “ her  Davy.” 

Johnson,  as  we  have  seen,  settled  down  in  London 
with  the  intention  of  making  literature  pay.  “ No  man 
but  a blockhead,”  he  said  in  his  strongest  manner, 
“ ever  wrote  except  for  money.”  Perhaps  it  was  for 
opinions  such  as  these  that  his  wife,  more  than  twenty 
years  older  than  himself,  declared  him  to  be  the  most 
sensible  man  that  lived.  A curious  figure  he  must  have 
seemed  to  those  booksellers  of  whom  he  demanded 
work  as  a translator,  mightily  tall  and  broadly  made, 
with  a face  which  he  twirled  and  twisted  about  in  a 
strange  fashion,  features  scarred  by  disease,  eyes  which 
were  of  little  use  to  him,  and  a manner  pompous  and 
overbearing,  though  redeemed  by  a kindliness  of  heart 


246  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


not  to  be  concealed.  But  he  managed  to  struggle 
along,  writing  squibs  or  pamphlets,  reporting  speeches 
in  Parliament,  trying  his  hand  at  plays  or  poetry,  and 
all  the  while  working  away  at  his  Great  Dictionary,  for 
which  when  finished  he  was  to  receive  AT  500,  he  out 
of  that  sum  paying  his  copyists  and  assistants.  He 
founded  a club  at  which  he  began  to  make  his  reputa- 
tion as  a talker,  and  out  of  those  conversations  with 
his  special  friends  there  came  to  him  the  idea  of  start- 
ing a newspaper  on  the  lines  of  Addison’s  Spectator. 
But  Johnson’s  heavy  hand,  his  love  of  long  discourses, 
and  the  natural  melancholy  of  his  nature,  did  not  fit 
him  for  work  such  as  this.  His  Rambler  only  lasted 
for  two  years,  and  certainly  made  him  no  fortune, 
though  it  may  have  helped  him  to  exist  during  that 
time.  His  Dictionary,  when  it  was  at  last  completed, 
gave  him  a surer  position  in  the  literary  world  of 
London,  and  he  was  paid  the  sum  of  £ 100  for  his 
story  of  “ Rasselas,”  but  most  of  this  went  in  paying  for 
the  last  illness  and  funeral  of  his  mother,  and  Johnson 
seems  to  have  been  sadly  in  need  of  money.  Through 
the  influence  of  some  friends,  the  king,  George  III., 
who  declared  that  he  was  most  anxious  to  offer 
“ brighter  prospects  to  men  of  literary  merit,”  proposed 
to  give  Johnson  a pension  of  -£300  a year.  At  first 
he  would  not  hear  of  accepting  it — indeed,  there  was 
a rather  formidable  difficulty  in  the  way,  for  in  his 
Dictionary  he  had  defined  the  word  pension  as  being 
“ generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a State 
hireling  for  treason  to  his  country.”  However,  the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  247 


explanations  and  persuasions  of  his  friends  at  last 
overcame  the  obstacle,  and  from  that  time  forward 
he  became  one  of  the  best  known  public  characters. 
A favourite  such  as  David  Garrick  he  could  never 
have  aspired  to  he,  and  to  fashionable  folks,  especially 
to  ladies,  he  was  an  untidy,  conceited,  rugged  old  man, 
who  ate  enormous  meals,  drank  sometimes  twenty-five 
cups  of  tea  at  one  sitting,  wore  slovenly  and  dirty 
clothes,  half-burnt  wigs,  and  slippers  almost  in  tatters. 
Then  he  contradicted  flatly,  and  his  anger  was  of  a 
very  vehement  kind  ; though  he  always  declared  him- 
self to  be  a “ most  polite  man,”  and  was  occasionally 
ceremonious  to  a wonderful  degree.  And  yet  as  he 
discoursed,  men  listened  to  him  with  such  pleasure 
that  they  forgot  entirely  his  many  monstrous  failings. 
His  power  of  argument  was  magnificent;  never  could 
man  so  slay  an  adversary  by  his  words  as  could  this 
vigorous,  quarrelsome,  brilliant  talker,  and  though  he 
hit  hard,  he  did  not  hit  cruelly.  There  was  no  venom 
in  his  words,  and  however  violently  he  argued,  he 
never  seems  to  have  lost  a friend  through  it.  On  the 
contrary  his  circle  of  admirers  constantly  grew,  and 
cheerfully  submitted  to  whatever  demands  he  made 
upon  them.  Chief  among  those  friends,  of  course, 
stands  the  faithful  Boswell,  who  idolised  him  with  a 
worship  that  must  have  been  very  wearisome.  If 
Johnson  so  much  as  opened  his  mouth  Boswell  bent 
forward  wild  with  eagerness,  terrified  lest  one  precious 
word  should  escape  him  ; he  sat  as  close  to  him  as 
he  could  get,  he  hung  around  him  like  a dog,  and  no 


248  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


amount  of  snubbing  could  damp  his  ardour.  He  de- 
lighted in  asking  his  master  a series  of  such  questions 
as  these : — “ What  would  you  do  if  you  were  shut  up 
iu  a castle  with  a new-born  baby  ? ” Or,  “ Why  is  a 
cow’s  tail  long  ? ” 

“I  will  not  be  baited  with  what  and  why,”  Johnson 
would  answer  impatiently.  “ You  have  only  two  subjects, 
yourself  and  me.  I am  sick  of  both.  If  your  presence 
does  not  drive  a man  out  of  his  house,  nothing  will.” 

Johnson’s  daily  life  seems  to  have  been  mapped  out 
in  this  wise.  He  lay  in  bed  late  into  the  morning, 
surrounded  by  an  admiring  circle  of  men  friends,  who 
consulted  him  on  every  particular,  and  listened  respect- 
fully to  all  his  opinions.  He  only  rose  in  time  for  a 
late  dinner  at  some  tavern  which  occupied  most  of  the 
afternoon,  as  other  circles  of  friends  came  to  listen  to 
him.  Then  he  would  drink  tea  at  some  house,  frequently 
spending  the  rest  of  the  evening  there,  unless  he  was 
supping  with  other  acquaintances.  Except  for  his  “ Lives 
of  the  Poets,”  he  wrote  but  little  at  this  period  of  his 
life,  and  said  in  excuse,  “ that  a man  could  do  as  much 
good  by  talking  as  by  writing.” 

Johnson  was  generally  melancholy,  the  result  of  his 
miserable  health  to  a great  extent.  Yet  his  pessimism 
never  affected  his  wonderfully  tender  heart.  Of  his 
pension  he  barely  spent  a third  on  himself.  His  house 
became,  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  the  haven  for  a variety 
of  unfortunate  and  homeless  people,  and  there  lived  in 
it  Miss  Williams,  a blind  lady,  whose  temper  was  not 
sweet ; Levett,  a waiter,  who  had  become  a quack 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  249 


doctor ; Mrs.  Desmoulins,  and  her  daughter,  old  Lich- 
field acquaintances,  and  a certain  Miss  Carmichael. 
Needless  to  say  there  was  very  little  peace  in  that 
household,  and  the  poor  old  Doctor  often  dreaded  going 
home.  “ Williams  hates  everybody,”  he  wrote  to  his 
really  good  friends,  the  Thrales.  “ Levett  hates  Des- 
moulins, and  does  not  love  Williams  ; Desmoulins  hates 
them  both  ; Poll  Carmichael  loves  none  of  them.” 

And  yet  this  “ rugged  old  giant,”  as  he  has  been 
called,  provided  for  them  all,  and  for  many  others  who 
came  and  went  at  their  will,  and  who  grumbled  if  every- 
thing was  not  exactly  to  their  liking.  As  his  bodily 
sufferings  increased,  he  nerved  himself  to  face  the  end  with 
a touchingly  childlike  confidence.  His  thoughts  wandered 
back  to  his  wife.  “We  have  been  parted  thirty  years,” 
he  said.  “ Perhaps  she  is  now  praying  for  me.  God 
help  me.  God,  Thou  art  merciful,  hear  my  prayers, 
and  enable  me  to  trust  in  Thee.”  Years  before,  when 
wandering  about  the  dark  aisles  with  Goldsmith,  he  had 
pointed  to  the  sleeping  figures  around,  saying,  “ And 
our  names  may  perhaps  be  mixed  with  theirs.”  So  now 
he  was  delighted  when,  in  answer  to  his  question,  he 
was  told  that  he  would  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
“ Do  not  give  me  any  more  physic,”  he  asked  the  doctor 
at  the  very  last ; “ I desire  to  render  up  my  soul  to  God 
unclouded.” 

His  funeral  was  a very  quiet  one,  in  great  con- 
trast to  Garrick’s,  but  his  executors  felt  that  “ a 
cathedral  service  with  lights  and  music  ” would  have 
been  too  costly  ; as  it  was,  the  Dean  and  Chapter  charged 


2 so  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


high  fees,  and  the  expenses  came  to  more  than  two 
hundred  pounds.  But  Boswell  assures  us  that  a “ re- 
spectable number  of  his  friends  attended,”  and  though 
the  Abbey  holds  many  a greater  name  than  that  of 
Samuel  Johnson,  few  that  sleep  there  carried  a braver, 
kindlier  heart  throughout  a life  of  constant  suffering. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  was  the  son  of  an  actor 
and  manager  who  had  been  driven  from  Ireland,  his 
native  country,  by  a series  of  misfortunes,  and  forced 
to  earn  his  living  in  England  as  a teacher  of  elo- 
cution. Want  of  money,  endless  debts,  a wonderful 
power  of  spending  freely  with  an  entire  absence  of  fore- 
thought, characterised  the  Sheridan  family,  and  young 
Richard  was  brought  up  on  those  very  happy-go-lucky 
principles.  He  was  sent  to  Harrow,  where  his  tutor  said, 
“ The  sources  of  his  infirmities  were  a scanty  and  pre- 
carious allowance  from  the  father ; ” and  when  he  left 
school,  a handsome,  brilliant,  careless  boy  of  seventeen, 
the  state  of  the  family  purse  made  any  further  edu- 
cation out  of  the  question.  His  father  had  settled  in 
Bath,  and  here  Richard  made  the  acquaintance  of  that 
beautiful  girl  and  wonderful  singer,  Elizabeth  Lindley, 
“ the  link  between  an  angel  and  a woman,”  as  an  Irish 
bishop  called  her,  whose  father  also  taught  music  and 
gave  concerts  in  Bath.  She  was  very  unhappy,  as  her 
relations  wished  to  force  her  into  a marriage  with  a rich 
but  elderly  gentleman  whom  she  disliked,  and  in  her 
despair  she  confided  her  troubles  to  Richard  Sheridan, 
the  one  among  her  many  admirers  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  heart.  To  make  a long  story  short,  “ the 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  251 


young  couple  fled  together  “ on  a matrimonial  expedi- 
tion,” as  the  London  Chronicle  worded  it ; and  in  spite 
of  all  opposition  they  married,  and  took  up  their  abode 
in  London,  near  Portman  Square.  Though  neither  of 
them  had  any  private  fortune,  Sheridan  refused  to  allow 
his  wife  to  sing  in  public.  This  action  of  his  was 
warmly  discussed  by  Dr.  Johnson’s  friends,  some  of 
whom  said  that  as  the  young  gentleman  had  not  a 
shilling  in  the  world,  he  was  foolishly  delicate  or 
foolishly  proud.  The  Doctor,  however,  applauded  him 
roundly.  “ He  is  a brave  man.  He  resolved  wisely 
and  nobly.  Would  not  a gentleman  be  disgraced  by 
having  his  wife  singing  publicly  for  him  ? No,  sir,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  here.”  But  Sheridan  had  another  sur- 
prise in  store  for  his  friends,  and  suddenly  it  became 
known  that  he  had  written  a play  called  “ The  Rivals,” 
with  which  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  was 
entranced,  a light,  fresh  comedy,  bearing  on  fashionable 
life  in  Bath.  It  was  produced,  and  in  spite  of  its  many 
faults,  chiefly  arising  from  its  having  been  written  in 
such  hot  haste,  it  made  a reputation  for  its  author,  which 
prepared  the  way  for  his  great  triumph  two  years  later, 
when  he  brought  out  “ The  School  for  Scandal,”  still  the 
most  popular  of  English  comedies.  With  it  he  leapt 
into  fame,  and  though  barely  twenty-five,  he  became  the 
man  whose  name  was  in  everybody’s  mouth.  With 
characteristic  airiness  and  vagueness  in  money  matters, 
he  took  upon  himself  the  responsible  duties  of  manager 
to  Drury  Lane  Theatre  after  Garrick  retired,  and  bril- 
liant though  he  was,  his  recklessness  and  want  of  any 


252  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


business  habits,  soon  brought  about  a serious  state  of  chaos 
and  rebellion  there.  This,  however,  seemed  to  disturb 
him  but  little,  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  politics ; 
for  at  the  Literary  Club  he  had  made  many  poli- 
tical friends,  including  Fox,  and  he  proposed  going  into 
Parliament  as  an  independent  member,  though  he  be- 
lieved that  “ either  ministry  or  opposition  would  be 
happy  to  engage  him.”  He  found  a seat  at  Stafford,  and 
freely  promised  employment  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre  to 
those  who  voted  for  him ; while  the  necessary  money  for 
the  election,  which  of  course  Sheridan  did  not  possess, 
was  provided  by  a gentleman  in  return  for  a share  in  the 
Opera  House.  His  first  speech  was  not  a success,  but 
though  disappointed  he  was  not  daunted. 

“ It  is  in  me,  however,”  he  declared,  “ and  it  shall 
come  out.” 

Within  a very  short  time  the  House  of  Commons  listened 
to  him  as  it  would  listen  to  no  one  else.  By  constant 
practice  he  had  trained  himself  to  speak  perfectly,  and 
true  to  his  Irish  blood,  he  had  a rich  store  of  language, 
a fund  of  wit  and  humour,  and  the  power  of  handling 
every  emotion.  His  great  speech  in  the  Warren  Hastings 
case  lasted  six  hours,  during  the  whole  of  which  time  he 
held  the  House  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  when  he 
continued  his  attack  in  Westminster  Hall,  people  paid 
twenty  guineas  a day  to  hear  him.  “ I cannot  tell  you,” 
wrote  his  devoted  wife  to  her  sister,  “ the  adoration  that 
he  has  excited  in  the  breasts  of  every  class  of  people. 
Every  party  prejudice  has  been  overcome  by  such  a dis- 
play of  genius,  eloquence,  and  goodness.” 


GARRICK,  JOHNSON,  AND  SHERIDAN  253 


Sheridan  indeed  was  at  the  height  of  his  glory ; but 
fame  is  a dangerous  pinnacle  for  the  strongest  of  men, 
and  Sheridan  had  no  foundation-stones  of  strength  or 
stability.  His  wife’s  death  was  the  beginning  of  his  fall, 
debt  and  drink  did  the  rest.  All  sense  of  honour  seems 
to  have  left  him  where  money  was  concerned.  His 
actors  could  get  no  payments  save  in  fair  words ; he 
kept  the  money  which  resulted  from  special  benefits ; he 
borrowed  where  he  could,  and  then  plunged  the  more 
deeply  into  debt,  but  he  never  curbed  his  extravagances, 
or  went  without  anything  he  desired,  no  matter  to  what 
means  he  had  to  resort.  His  buoyancy  never  failed  him. 
Even  when  his  theatre  was  burnt  to  the  ground  with  a 
loss  to  him  of  ^200,000,  his  ready  wit  did  not  desert  him. 
He  sat  drinking  his  wine  in  a coffee-house  from  where  he 
could  see  the  flames,  merely  remarking  to  a sympathetic 
friend,  “ A man  likes  to  take  a glass  of  wine  by  his  own 
fireside.”  All  the  latter  part  of  his  life  is  painfully  sad ; 
debt,  poverty,  and  dishonour  hemmed  him  in,  and  ex- 
cessive drinking  brought  on  his  last  illness.  A few 
days  before  his  death  he  was  discovered  almost  starving 
in  an  unfurnished  room.  Even  then  the  bailiffs  were 
about  to  carry  him  away  to  the  debtors’  gaol,  and  only 
the  doctor,  who  stayed  and  nursed  him  to  the  end,  pre- 
vented this  last  disgrace.  The  news  of  his  destitution 
horrified  those  who  remembered  him  in  the  days  of  his 
dazzling  triumphs,  and  in  one  paper  an  eloquent  appeal 
was  made  to  the  public  generosity,  “ that  we  may  prefer 
ministering  in  the  chamber  of  sadness  to  ministering 
at  the  splendid  sorrows  which  adorn  the  hearse.”  In 


254  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


response,  crowds  of  people,  royal  dukes  included, 
flocked  to  leave  delicacies  at  his  lodging.  But  it  was 
too  late  ; the  fitful  life  with  all  its  successes  and  failures 
was  over,  the  shining  eyes  of  which  he  had  been  so 
proud  were  closed  for  ever  now,  the  man  who  had  “ done 
everything  perfectly  ” was  no  more  : the  greatest  orator 
of  his  day  was  silent. 

He  had  always  hoped  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  “ where  there  is  very  snug  lying,”  and  if  pos- 
sible next  to  Fox  and  Pitt.  Moreover,  he  had  desired 
that  his  passage  to  the  grave  should  be  quiet  and 
simple.  But  his  friend,  Peter  Moore,  determined  that 
he  should  have  a splendid  funeral ; every  one  was 
invited  and  every  one  came.  The  procession  was  of 
great  length,  and  “ such  an  array  of  rank,  so  great 
a number  of  distinguished  persons  ” had  never  before 
assembled  within  the  memory  of  the  beholders.  There 
was  just  room  for  a single  grave  near  to  where  David 
Garrick  lay,  and  here  Sheridan  was  buried.  While, 
lest  his  name  should  be  all  too  soon  forgotten,  a simply 
worded  tablet  was  immediately  prepared — the  last  tribute 
of  Peter  Moore. 


Hudson. 


Walker  & Cockerell. 


George  Frederick  Handel. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY 

The  Abbey  which  has  its  poets,  its  writers,  and  its 
actors,  has  also  its  musicians.  Henry  Purcell,  who  lies 
in  the  north  aisle,  spent  his  short  life  among  West- 
minster precincts,  for  he  was  born  in  the  year  1658  at 
“ an  ancient  house  of  Westminster,  next  door  to  the 
public-house  and  skittle  ground — the  ‘ Bell  and  Fish.  ’ ” 
His  father,  a “ master  of  musique,  who  could  sing  brave 
songs,”  was  a gentleman  of  the  Chapel  Eoyal,  a singing 
man  of  the  Abbey,  master  of  the  choristers  there,  and, 
most  important  of  all,  the  musical  copyist.  For  under 
the  Commonwealth,  church  choirs  and  music  had  been 
sternly  repressed,  organs  had  been  broken  up,  singing 
books  had  been  burned  as  superstitious  and  ungodly,  so 
that  when  once  more  the  old  cathedral  services  were 
allowed  to  be  held,  but  few  of  the  old  service  books 
were  left,  and  copyists  had  to  make  good  the  deficiency. 
The  older  Purcell  died  when  his  little  boy  was  quite 
young,  but  Thomas  Purcell,  an  uncle,  also  a gentleman 
of  the  Chapel  Eoyal,  took  him  in  hand,  and  at  six  years 
old  Henry  became  a chorister  under  that  delightful 
old  Master  of  the  Children  of  the  chapel,  Captain  Cook, 
a musician  whose  devotion  to  King  Charles  I.  had  led 

*55 


256  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


him  to  turn  soldier  during  the  Civil  War,  and  who  in  his 
old  age  had  returned  to  his  first  love.  Purcell  was  under 
this  original  master  for  eight  years,  and  the  old  soldier 
seems  to  have  taken  a special  pride  in  the  little  chorister. 
But  he  did  not  live  to  see  his  favourite  pupil  become 
famous,  for  in  1672  the  old  master  died  and  was 
buried  in  the  Westminster  cloisters,  whither  he  was 
followed  two  years  later  by  his  successor  Humphreys. 
Then  John  Blow,  another  pupil,  became  Master  of  the 
Children,  and,  as  it  is  specially  stated  on  his  monument 
in  the  Abbey,  at  the  same  time  “ master  to  the  famous 
Henry  Purcell.”  It  was  everything  to  the  boy  to  be 
under  so  rare  a teacher,  for  not  only  was  he  an  excellent 
musician,  but  also  a man  singularly  sympathetic  and 
pure-minded,  generous  to  a degree  and  without  a thought 
of  self.  He  became  organist  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
but  he  resigned  it  because  he  thought  it  the  very  post 
Purcell  could  fill  with  advantage.  He  then  accepted  St. 
Paul’s,  but  having  another  pupil,  Clarke,  whom  he  con- 
sidered suited  to  it,  he  again  set  his  own  interests  en- 
tirely on  one  side  and  retired  in  his  favour. 

Purcell  became  a copyist  of  Westminster,  but  he 
chiefly  devoted  his  time  to  composing  operas,  as  the 
managers  of  theatres  offered  him  plenty  of  work. 
He  also  turned  his  attention  to  church  music  and 
anthems.  The  year  1680  saw  Purcell  organist  of  the 
Abbey  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  soon  afterwards  he 
modestly  brought  out  a book  of  sonatas  for  two  violins, 
a bass,  and  the  harpsichord  or  organ,  in  the  preface 
to  which  he  said  he  had  faithfully  endeavoured  a just 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY 

The  Abbey  which  has  its  poets,  its  writers,  and  its 
actors,  has  also  its  musicians.  Henry  Purcell,  who  lies 
in  the  north  aisle,  spent  his  short  life  among  West- 
minster precincts,  for  he  was  born  in  the  year  1658  at 
“ an  ancient  house  of  Westminster,  next  door  to  the 
public-house  and  skittle  ground — the  c Bell  and  Fish.  ’ ” 
His  father,  a “ master  of  musique,  who  could  sing  brave 
songs,”  was  a gentleman  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  a singing 
man  of  the  Abbey,  master  of  the  choristers  there,  and, 
most  important  of  all,  the  musical  copyist.  For  under 
the  Commonwealth,  church  choirs  and  music  had  been 
sternly  repressed,  organs  had  been  broken  up,  singing- 
books  had  been  burned  as  superstitious  and  ungodly,  so 
that  when  once  more  the  old  cathedral  services  were 
allowed  to  be  held,  but  few  of  the  old  service  books 
were  left,  and  copyists  had  to  make  good  the  deficiency. 
The  older  Purcell  died  when  his  little  boy  was  quite 
young,  but  Thomas  Purcell,  an  uncle,  also  a gentleman 
of  the  Chapel  Royal,  took  him  in  hand,  and  at  six  years 
old  Henry  became  a chorister  under  that  delightful 
old  Master  of  the  Children  of  the  chapel,  Captain  Cook, 

a musician  whose  devotion  to  King  Charles  I.  had  led 

355 


256  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


him  to  turn  soldier  during  the  Civil  War,  and  who  in  his 
old  age  had  returned  to  his  first  love.  Purcell  was  under 
this  original  master  for  eight  years,  and  the  old  soldier 
seems  to  have  taken  a special  pride  in  the  little  chorister. 
But  he  did  not  live  to  see  his  favourite  pupil  become 
famous,  for  in  1672  the  old  master  died  and  was 
buried  in  the  Westminster  cloisters,  whither  he  was 
followed  two  years  later  by  his  successor  Humphreys. 
Then  John  Blow,  another  pupil,  became  Master  of  the 
Children,  and,  as  it  is  specially  stated  on  his  monument 
in  the  Abbey,  at  the  same  time  “ master  to  the  famous 
Henry  Purcell.”  It  was  everything  to  the  boy  to  be 
under  so  rare  a teacher,  for  not  only  was  he  an  excellent 
musician,  but  also  a man  singularly  sympathetic  and 
pure-minded,  generous  to  a degree  and  without  a thought 
of  self.  He  became  organist  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
but  he  resigned  it  because  he  thought  it  the  very  post 
Purcell  could  fill  with  advantage.  He  then  accepted  St. 
Paul’s,  but  having  another  pupil,  Clarke,  whom  he  con- 
sidered suited  to  it,  he  again  set  his  own  interests  en- 
tirely on  one  side  and  retired  in  his  favour. 

Purcell  became  a copyist  of  Westminster,  but  he 
chiefly  devoted  his  time  to  composing  operas,  as  the 
managers  of  theatres  offered  him  plenty  of  work. 
He  also  turned  his  attention  to  church  music  and 
anthems.  The  year  1680  saw  Purcell  organist  of  the 
Abbey  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  soon  afterwards  he 
modestly  brought  out  a book  of  sonatas  for  two  violins, 
a bass,  and  the  harpsichord  or  organ,  in  the  preface 
to  which  he  said  he  had  faithfully  endeavoured  a just 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY  257 


imitation  of  the  most  famed  Italian  masters,  and  went 
on  to  explain  that,  lest  the  terms  of  art  should  puzzle 
his  readers,  adagio  imported  nothing  but  a very  slow 
movement ; presto,  largo,  and  vivace,  a very  brisk,  swift, 
or  fast  movement ; and  piano  a soft  one.  Operas, 
anthems,  and  odes  all  seem  to  have  flowed  easily  from 
his  ready  pen,  and  a list  of  them  would  only  be  tedious. 
Among  his  anthems,  perhaps  the  best  known  is  the  one 
composed  for  the  coronation  of  James  II.,  “ I was  glad 
when  they  said  unto  me,  we  will  go  into  the  House 
of  the  Lord.”  The  coronation  of  William  and  Mary, 
however,  led  to  quite  a stir  in  the  inner  circle  of  the 
Abbey,  for  Purcell  allowed  a number  of  persons  to 
watch  the  ceremony  from  his  organ-loft,  charging  them 
for  admission.  Now  to  this  there  was  no  objection,  but 
when  rumour  related  that  the  fees  so  obtained  amounted 
to  some  hundreds  of  pounds,  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  pre- 
suming that  this  was  worth  contending  for,  claimed  the 
money  as  their  dues.  Purcell  declared  that  he  had  a 
right  to  organ-loft  fees ; and  the  feeling  must  have  run 
high,  as  in  an  old  chapter  note-book  there  runs  the 
order  that  “ Mr.  Purcell,  the  organ  blower , is  to  pay  such 
money  as  was  received  by  him  for  places  in  the  organ- 
loft,  in  default  thereof  his  place  to  be  declared  null  and 
void.”  How  the  quarrel  ended  is  not  known.  How- 
ever, Purcell  did  not  leave  the  Abbey,  but  went  on  with 
his  flow  of  compositions,  and  won  from  the  poet  Dryden 
the  statement  that  “ here  we  have  at  length  found  an 
Englishman  equal  with  the  best  abroad.”  It  was  to 
Purcell  that  Dryden  turned  for  the  music  to  his  opera 

R 


258  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


King  Arthur,  “ for,”  he  declared,  “ the  artful  hands  of  Mr. 
Purcell  compose  with  so  great  a genius,  that  he  has 
nothing  to  fear  but  an  ignorant,  ill -judging  audience.” 
Queen  Mary  seems  to  have  had  a liking  for  very  popular 
music,  and  once  seriously  offended  Purcell,  when  some  of 
his  compositions  were  being  performed  to  her,  by  asking 
to  have  sung  instead  the  old  Scotch  ballad,  “ Cold  and 
raw.”  So  when  he  next  had  to  compose  a birthday  ode 
for  her,  he  carefully  introduced  the  air  of  “ Cold  and 
raw.”  When  the  Queen  died  he  wrote  two  beautiful 
anthems  for  the  funeral  service  in  the  Abbey,  “ Blessed 
is  the  man,”  and  “ Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of 
our  hearts,”  of  which  a singer  in  the  choir  writes,  “I 
appeal  to  all  who  were  present,  to  those  who  understood 
music  as  well  as  to  those  who  did  not,  whether  they 
ever  heard  anything  so  rapturously  fine  and  solemn,  so 
heavenly  in  the  operation,  drawing  tears  from  all,  and 
yet  a plain  natural  composition,  which  shows  the  power 
of  music  when  ’tis  rightly  fitted  and  adapted  to  devotional 
purposes.”  At  many  a great  public  funeral  since,  this 
touching  music  of  Purcell’s  has  been  used,  and  nothing 
has  taken  its  place. 

Delicate  from  his  boyhood,  it  was  early  evident  that 
Henry  Purcell’s  life  as  organist  of  the  Abbey  was  to  be 
a short  one,  and  in  the  year  1695  a pathetic  little  note 
was  added  to  his  song,  “ Lovely  Albinia,”  stating  that, 
“ This  is  the  last  song  the  author  sett  before  his  sickness.” 
His  illness  was  just  a wasting  away,  “dangerously  ill  in  the 
constitution,  but  in  good  and  perfect  minde  and  memory, 
thanks  be  to  God,”  to  quote  his  own  words.  A touching 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY  259 


account  has  been  given  in  Dr.  Cumming’s  “ Life 
of  Purcell  ” of  the  closing  scene  in  this  bright  young 
life  : — 

“ He  lay  in  a house  on  the  west  side  of  Dean’s  Yard, 
Westminster,  from  whence  he  could  probably  hear  some 
faint  murmurs  of  the  Evensong  service  wafted  from  the 
old  Abbey  close  by,  some  well-remembered  phrase,  per- 
haps, of  one  of  his  own  soul-stirring  anthems.  The 
Psalms  for  the  day  (the  2 1 st)  to  be  chanted  at 
that  evening  service,  concluded  with  words  he  had 
set  to  music  which  the  world  was  not  likely  soon  to 
forget,  music  which  still  remains  unsurpassed  in  truth- 
fulness and  dignity.  A more  noble  or  more  fitting 

death-chant  for  a child  of  song  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find — 

“ ‘ Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel 

From  everlasting,  and  world  without  end. 

And  let  all  the  people  say,  Amen.’ 

“ So  his  gentle  spirit  passed  into  the  better  world, 
there  to  continue  his  service  of  song  and  praise  in  ful- 
ness and  perfection.” 

His  own  anthems  were  sung  at  his  funeral ; the  organ 
he  had  so  loved  pealed  out  its  rich  farewell  to  him ; and 
on  his  gravestone  are  these  words  in  Latin — 

“ Dead  ? No,  he  lives,  while  yonder  organ’s  sound, 

And  sacred  echoes  to  the  choir  rebound.” 

Dr.  Blow  went  back  to  his  old  post  as  Abbey  organist 
on  the  death  of  his  pupil,  and  devoted  himself  to  church 


260  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


music.  “ To  this,”  he  said,  “ I have  ever  especially  con- 
secrated the  thoughts  of  my  whole  life.  All  the  rest  I 
consider  but  as  blossoms  and  leaves.  With  this  I began 
my  youthful  raptures  in  this  art,  with  this  I hope  calmly 
and  comfortably  to  end  my  days.”  His  best  known  an- 
them, “ I beheld,  and  lo ! ” was  written  within  a week 
for  James  II.,  who  had  asked  him  if  he  could  do  as  well 
as  the  Italian  composers,  and  the  king,  much  pleased 
with  it,  sent  Father  Peter  to  congratulate  Blow  after 
service.  The  priest,  however,  took  it  upon  himself  to 
add  that,  “ in  his  opinion,  it  was  somewhat  too  long.” 
“ That,”  replied  Blow  scornfully,  “ is  only  one  fool’s 
opinion.  I heed  it  not.” 

Blow,  who  died  and  was  buried  opposite  to  Purcell  in 
1708,  was  considered  by  his  fellow-musicians  “to  be 
the  greatest  master  in  the  world  for  the  organ,  especially 
in  his  voluntaries,  which  he  played  gravely  and  seriously.” 
The  inscription  on  his  grave  declares  “ that  his  musical 
compositions  are  a far  nobler  monument  to  his  memory 
than  any  that  can  be  raised  to  him,”  and  on  the  open 
music-book  below  is  given  the  Gloria,  from  his  fine  Jubi- 
late in  C major. 

William  Croft  succeeded  Blow  as  organist,  and  most 
of  his  musical  compositions  were  written  for  special  occa- 
sions ; as,  for  example,  his  anthem,  “ I will  give  thanks,” 
which  was  produced  after  the  famous  Blenheim  victory. 
He,  too,  was  of  a lovable,  kindly  disposition,  and  the  in- 
scription on  his  monument  ends  thus  quaintly : “ He 
emigrated  to  the  Heavenly  Choir,  with  that  Concert 
of  Angels,  for  which  he  was  better  fitted,  adding  his 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY 


261 


Hallelujah.  Awake  up  my  glory ! Awake  lute  and 
harp ! I myself  will  awake  right  early.” 

Half  a century  later,  that  prince  among  musicians, 
George  Frederick  Handel,  was  buried  in  the  Poets’  Corner. 
Though  not  of  English  birth  or  upbringing,  he  had  become 
an  English  subject,  and  had  found  a warm  welcome  in 
the  hearts  of  the  English  people.  From  babyhood  he  had 
shown  the  bent  of  his  mind.  Even  his  toys  were  tiny 
trumpets,  horns,  and  Jew’s  harps,  much  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  his  kind  old  father,  the  well-known  doctor  in  the 
German  town  of  Halle,  who  thought  this  craze  of  George 
Frederick’s  should  be  forcibly  put  a stop  to,  and  who 
decreed  therefore,  that  “ there  was  to  be  no  more  jingling, 
neither  was  he  to  go  into  houses  where  music  was  practised.” 
The  boy  was  outwardly  submissive,  but  the  longing 
within  was  too  strong  for  him.  Somehow  he  got  pos- 
session of  an  old  clavichord,  one  of  those  muffled  instru- 
ments on  which  musical  monks  could  practise  without 
disturbing  the  brethren,  and  this  he  smuggled  up  to 
a garret  in  the  roof  of  the  house,  where,  with  storks 
to  bear  him  company,  he  played  away  to  his  soul’s 
content.  It  was  in  utter  ignorance  of  all  this,  that 
Dr.  Handel  took  the  little  boy  with  him  once,  when 
summoned  to  attend  the  Court  at  Sache-Weisseufels, 
where  the  reigning  duke  delighted  in  learning,  art,  and 
music.  Naturally,  George  Frederick  found  his  way  to 
the  organ-loft,  where  the  good-natured  organist  lifted 
him  up,  for  he  was  but  seven,  that  he  might  touch  the 
notes.  To  his  surprise,  the  child  began  to  play  with  a 
practised  hand,  and  with  so  much  style,  that  the  Grand 


262  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Duke,  who  heard  him,  sent  for  the  doctor  and  begged 
him  not  further  to  thwart  such  a genius.  So  from  this 
time  forward  the  boy  was  allowed  to  study  seriously, 
under  the  enthusiastic  organist  of  the  Liebfrauen  Kirche 
in  Halle,  who  taught  him  to  play  the  harpsichord,  the 
organ,  the  violin,  the  hautboy,  and  other  instruments, 
besides  the  art  of  counterpoint.  When,  after  years  of 
study,  he  came  to  England,  where  Purcell’s  death  had 
made  a blank  not  yet  filled  up,  he  was  received  with 
open  arms,  his  fame  having  preceded  him.  At  once  he 
was  engaged  to  write  an  opera  for  the  Queen’s  Theatre, 
and  having  discovered  a libretto  which  greatly  pleased 
him,  a stirring  story  of  the  Crusades,  his  ideas  poured 
forth  so  fast  and  so  easily,  that  in  a fortnight  he  had 
completed  the  work,  and  his  “ Rinaldo  ” was  soon 
the  rage  of  the  season.  Although  Handel  held  the 
post  of  Kapellmeister  to  the  Elector  of  Hanover,  and 
had  only  been  given  leave  of  absence  for  a “ reasonable 
time,”  he  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  London,  so 
well  did  he  like  the  place  and  the  people. 

From  operatic  music  he  turned  to  oratorio.  The  Duke 
of  Chandos,  who  lived  in  almost  regal  state  at  his  palace 
at  Cannons,  maintained  an  orchestra  and  choir,  so  that  the 
musical  services  of  his  private  chapel  might  be  as  nearly 
perfect  as  possible.  To  Handel  he  offered  the  post  of 
musical  director,  and  thus,  in  church  music,  the  great 
composer’s  genius  found  a new  outlet.  The  wonderful 
old  Bible  stories,  with  their  vigour  and  dramatic  force, 
and  the  stately  Bible  language,  with  its  rich  simpli- 
city, strongly  appealed  to  him,  and  it  is  because  of  his 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY  263 


oratorios  and  cantatas  rather  than  through  his  other 
works,  that  the  name  and  the  memory  of  Handel  remain 
for  ever  fresh  among  us.  “ Esther  ” was  his  first  great 
work  in  this  new  line,  first  performed  in  a private 
house  at  Westminster  by  the  children  of  the  Chapel 
Boyal,  assisted  by  the  choristers  of  the  Abbey.  So 
pleased  were  the  guests,  that  a few  days  later  the  per- 
formance was  repeated  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor  tavern 
in  the  Strand,  and  would  further  have  been  given  at  the 
Opera  House,  had  not  the  Bishop  of  London  refused  per- 
mission for  any  choristers  to  take  part.  Eventually,  with 
a new  band  of  singers,  the  oratorio  was  publicly  given, 
by  the  king’s  command,  in  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
“ with  a great  number  of  voices  and  instruments,”  and 
it  was  specially  announced  that  “ there  would  be  no 
acting  on  the  stage,  though  the  house  would  be  fitted 
up  in  a decent  manner  for  the  audience.”  To  this  per- 
formance came  all  the  royal  family,  while  so  great  was 
the  crowd,  that  hundreds  were  turned  empty  away,  and 
six  extra  performances  had  to  be  at  once  arranged  for. 

“ Deborah  ” and  “ Athaliah  ” soon  followed,  also  “ Acis 
and  Galatea,”  which  latter,  though  not  sacred  music,  served 
to  increase  his  popularity,  his  audiences  numbering  thou- 
sands. A great  blow  to  him  was  the  death  of  Queen 
Caroline,  his  kindest,  most  sympathetic  friend,  and  in 
composing  the  anthem  for  her  funeral  in  the  Abbey  he 
wrote  from  the  depths  of  his  sorrowing  heart.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  pathos  or  the  sweetness  of  that  music, 
with  its  undercurrent  of  desolate  grief,  and  when,  in  the 
February  of  1901,  the  Abbey  was  thronged  with  a great 


2 64  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


representative  assembly,  there  to  pay  a last  tribute  of 
reverence  to  another  queen,  this  anthem  rang  once  more 
through  the  old  walls. 

Success  to  Handel  was  but  a stepping-stone,  leading 
him  towards  something  higher.  He  was  never  satisfied 
with  himself,  but  went  on  from  strength  to  strength, 
conscious  of  his  own  power  to  produce  music  which 
should  live  for  ever.  His  “ Saul  ” and  his  “ Israel  in 
Egypt  ” showed  how  completely  he  could  throw  himself 
into  the  spirit  of  his  subject,  and  through  the  pages  of  his 
music,  Saul,  Goliath  and  David,  the  Children  of  Israel, 
the  Egyptians  and  Miriam,  all  spring  into  life  for  us. 
As  we  listen,  the  story  takes  new  shape,  and  the  events 
which  surround  it  stand  out  with  a new  lurid  light. 

But  the  greatest  work  of  all  was  not  produced  in 
London.  Handel  went  on  a visit  to  Dublin,  where  he 
found  audiences  “ more  numerous  and  polite  than  he  had 
ever  seen  on  like  occasions,”  and  the  general  enthusiasm  “so 
put  him  in  good  spirits,”  that  after  completing  a second 
series  of  concerts  a special  performance  was  announced, 
at  which  “ Mr.  Handel’s  new  grand  oratorio  called  ‘ The 
Messiah  ’ ” was  to  be  given.  Furthermore,  as  a great  crowd 
was  anticipated,  ladies  were  begged  to  come  without  their 
hoops,  and  gentlemen  without  their  swords,  for  in  this  way 
quite  another  hundred  persons  could  be  accommodated. 

“ The  finest  composition  of  musick  that  was  ever 
heard,”  was  the  verdict  of  that  “ grand,  polite,  and 
crowded  audience,”  and  a liberal  sum  was  received  for 
the  “ relief  of  the  prisoners  in  the  gaols,”  to  which 
charity  Handel,  with  peculiar  appropriateness,  had  offered 


THE  MUSICIANS  IN  THE  ABBEY  265 


to  devote  the  profits.  Strange  to  say,  the  new  work 
did  not  at  once  take  root  in  London,  but  with  repeated 
performances  its  triumph  became  steady  and  lasting. 
The  subject  was  a great  one.  The  smallest  mistake  in 
dealing  with  it  would  have  jarred  painfully,  and  so  little 
would  have  robbed  that  simple  story  of  its  majesty. 
But  Handel  gave  to  it  a new  glory,  a new  splendid 
dignity,  and  to  many  a heart  those  familiar  words  have 
struck  home  with  a reality  hitherto  undreamt  of,  through 
the  beauty  and  the  force  of  his  music.  Beverently  he 
touched  the  great  mystery,  and  as  the  story  took  life 
before  his  awe-struck  eyes,  he  translated  it  into  har- 
monies worthy  of  so  vast  a theme. 

“ I did  think  I did  see  all  heaven  before  me,  and 
the  great  God  Himself,”  said  Handel  reverently,  as  he 
spoke  of  the  Hallelujah  Chorus,  which  so  deeply  im- 
pressed the  audience  in  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on 
the  first  night  that,  one  and  all,  with  the  king  setting 
the  example,  they  sprang  to  their  feet  and  stood  to  the 
end.  The  musician  had  led  them  into  the  very  Presence 
of  God. 

Other  oratorios  followed — “ Samson,”  “ Judas  Mac- 
cabaeus,”  and  “ Jephtha  ” — but  none  of  them  equalled 
“ The  Messiah.”  To  this  great  work  Handel  had  given 
freely  of  his  best,  before  that  dark  cloud  arose  which 
saddened  all  his  later  days.  For  gradually  blindness 
crept  over  him,  till  at  last  his  sight  departed  for  ever. 
In  spite  of  this  he  continued  to  conduct  his  own  works, 
and  to  the  last  insisted  on  being  led  to  the  organ,  that 
he  might  play  the  concertos  and  voluntaries  between  the 


2 66  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


parts  of  his  oratorios.  And  we  hear  how,  when  the  fine 
solo  in  “ Samson  ” — 

“ Total  eclipse — no  sun,  no  moon : 

All  dark  amid  the  blaze  of  noon,” 

was  sung  with  great  feeling  at  one  performance,  the 
sight  of  the  blind  composer  sitting  at  the  organ  was  so 
indescribably  touching,  that  many  present  were  moved 
to  tears. 

On  the  5th  of  April,  1759,  a notice  appeared  in  the 
Public  Advertiser  that  “ The  Messiah  ” would  be  per- 
formed in  Covent  Garden  on  the  6th  of  April  for  the 
last  time  in  the  season. 

Handel  conducted  his  work,  was  carried  fainting  from 
the  hall,  and  in  less  than  a week  had  passed  away. 
His  own  wish,  when  he  knew  how  near  the  end  loomed, 
was  that  he  might  die  on  Good  Friday,  “ in  hopes,”  he 
said,  “ of  meeting  my  good  God  and  sweet  Saviour  on  the 
day  of  His  resurrection.”  And  in  this  trustful  spirit 
he  went  to  the  God  he  had  so  worthily  worshipped. 

His  funeral  was  intended  to  be  private,  but  thousands 
came  to  it,  and  though  no  trace  remains  of  the  music 
sung  on  that  occasion,  I cannot  help  hoping  that  some 
boy’s  clear  voice  rang  through  the  aisles  as  he  sang 
“ I know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth.”  Nothing  would 
have  been  so  fitting,  and  those  are  the  words,  nobler  far 
than  any  epitaph,  which  the  good  taste  of  some  friend 
caused  to  be  inscribed  on  his  monument  in  the  Poets’ 
Corner. 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 


WILBERFORCE  AND  HIS  FELLOW-WORKERS 

The  desire  of  Abou  Ben  Adkem  that  his  name  might  be 
handed  on  as  one  “ who  loved  his  fellow-men  ” would 
form  a fitting  epitaph  not  only  to  those  great-hearted 
workers  in  the  cause  of  humanity  whom  the  Abbey  has 
delighted  to  honour — William  Wilberforce,  the  liberator 
of  the  slave,  and  David  Livingstone,  the  missionary  and 
explorer  in  Darkest  Africa — but  also  to  those  others  who 
toiled  with  them  in  the  same  great  cause  of  freedom, 
and  whose  claims  to  the  grateful  recollection  of  the 
nation  are  recorded  only  by  monuments  — Granville 
Sharp,  Jonas  Hanway,  Zachary  Macaulay,  Powell  Buxton, 
and  Anthony  Astley  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  A 
few  words  first  about  one  of  these  latter,  Granville 
Sharp,  for  he  it  was  who  became  the  pioneer  of  that 
noble  band  who  never  ceased  from  their  labours  till 
they  had  freed  the  slave  on  British  territory. 

He  was  only  a linen-draper’s  assistant,  afterwards 
becoming  a clerk  in  the  Ordnance  Office ; but  the 
mouotony  of  his  work  never  allowed  monotony  or 
narrowness  to  enter  his  life.  His  heart  was  responsive 
to  every  high  claim,  and  difficulties  only  meant  to 
him  obstacles  to  be  overcome.  Courage,  energy,  and 

267 


268  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


determination  were  his  watchwords.  His  brother  was 
a doctor  in  Mincing  Lane,  who  saw  poor  people 
free  of  charge,  and  among  his  patients  was  a negro 
called  Jonathan  Strong,  who  had  been  brought  to  London 
by  his  master,  a lawyer,  from  Barbadoes,  only  to  be 
turned  out  into  the  streets  friendless  and  homeless  when 
he  fell  ill.  Hr.  Sharp  treated  him  so  successfully  that 
he  became  quite  well,  and  Granville  Sharp  found  him  a 
situation  with  a chemist,  which  he  kept  for  some  years, 
until  one  day  he  was  seen  and  recognised  by  his  old 
employer,  who  finding  him  well  and  active  had  him 
seized,  and  kept  in  custody  until  he  could  be  shipped 
off  to  the  West  Indies.  Jonathan,  in  despair,  thought 
of  Granville  Sharp,  and  appealed  to  him  for  protection. 
Sharp  at  once  went  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  who  gave  judg- 
ment that  the  man  had  been  wrongfully  seized  and  held 
without  a warrant,  and  ordered  him  to  be  at  once  set 
at  liberty.  But  then  arose  an  unlooked-for  difficulty. 
Jonathan’s  late  master  had  sold  him,  and  his  new  owner 
appeared  with  the  bill  of  sale,  claiming  his  property 
and  declaring  he  had  been  robbed.  Then  came  the 
question  as  to  whether  the  traffic  in  slaves  which  went 
on  openly,  especially  in  London  and  Liverpool,  was 
lawful  or  not.  Was  a slave  free  when  he  reached 
England,  or  could  he  be  seized  and  compelled  to  go 
back  ? The  lawyers  declared  that  no  English  law  pro- 
tected the  slave.  Granville  Sharp  refused  to  believe  it. 
During  the  next  few  years  he  spent  every  hour  of  his 
spare  time  in  studying  the  law ; in  wading  through 
masses  of  dry  Acts ; in  sorting,  sifting,  verifying,  and 


WILBERFORCE 


269 


quoting,  though  more  than  one  friendly  lawyer  assured 
him  that  all  his  work  was  a useless  waste  of  time.  But 
the  result  of  his  labours  surprised  them  as  much  as  it 
cheered  the  heart  of  Granville  Sharp,  for  it  proved  that 
“ there  was  nothing  in  any  English  law  or  statute  which 
could  justify  the  enslaving  of  others.”  He  at  once 
published  a plain,  clear  pamphlet  which  he  called  “ The 
Injustice  of  Tolerating  Slavery  in  England  ; ” and  further 
than  that,  certain  in  the  justice  of  his  cause,  he  went 
down,  armed  with  a writ  of  Habeas  Corpus,  to  Graves- 
end, where  he  had  been  told  of  a captured  negro  who 
was  being  taken  back  by  force.  He  found  the  wretched 
man  chained  to  the  mainmast,  but  after  a fierce  struggle 
he  got  possession  of  him  and  returned  with  him  in 
triumph  to  London.  He  did  much  the  same  in  the 
case  of  another  negro  called  James  Somerset,  whose 
owner  promptly  brought  the  matter  before  Lord  Chief- 
Justice  Mansfield,  who  declared  the  question  to  be  so 
important  and  doubtful  a one  that  he  must  take  the 
opinion  of  the  judges  upon  it.  A very  lengthy  trial 
followed.  At  last  the  court  gave  the  opinion,  that  every 
man  in  England  had  a right  to  his  liberty  unless  he  had 
broken  the  law ; that  the  power  to  seize  or  claim  a 
slave  in  England  had  never  been  acknowledged  by  the 
law,  and  that  therefore  Somerset  was  free.  It  was  the 
first  great  step  towards  a more  far-reaching  freedom, 
and  it  was  mainly  won  by  the  careful,  devoted  study 
of  Granville  Sharp,  whose  pamphlet  had  made  a great 
impression  on  the  Lord  Chief- Justice.  The  next  step 
was  to  found  a society  for  the  Abolition  of  Slavery,  and 


270  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


to  this  flocked  a number  of  men,  chiefly  Quakers,  who 
banded  themselves  together  with  most  steadfast  determi- 
nation never  to  cease  from  their  labours  until  Parliament 
had  declared  all  traffic  in  slaves  to  he  illegal  in  every 
part  of  the  British  Empire.  This  was  a gigantic 
undertaking,  for  British  merchants  dealt  largely  in 
slaves,  and  they  were  so  powerful  a body  that  it  was 
certain  the  Government  would  shrink  from  opposing 
them.  But  this  little  band  of  religious,  earnest,  chival- 
rous men  had  the  strength  which  comes  from  the  con- 
viction that  theirs  was  a righteous  cause  destined  in 
the  end  to  triumph  over  every  obstacle.  One  of  their 
number  was  William  Wilberforce,  a young  and  a deli- 
cate-looking man,  who  when  only  twenty  years  of  age 
had  been  elected  as  member  for  Hull,  with  no  powerful 
support  except  what  he  derived  from  his  own  personal 
influence  and  his  independent  character.  In  London  he 
soon  made  his  mark.  Pitt  became  his  greatest  friend, 
and  in  society  he  was  made  much  of,  so  full  was  he  of 
wit  and  charm ; while  in  addition  to  his  many  other 
gifts,  he  was  an  excellent  singer.  But  fascinating  and 
absorbing  as  was  the  life  into  which  he  was  then  thrown, 
it  did  not  satisfy  him.  Even  while  he  stood  on  a height, 
he  caught  the  glimpse  of  the  height  that  is  higher,  the 
which  having  once  seen,  no  true  man  can  rest  until  he 
has  attained  it.  As  the  vision  unfolded  itself  before  his 
eyes  Wilberforce  became  a changed  man,  so  much  so 
that  for  a time  it  was  believed  by  his  friends  that  he 
would  leave  public  life  and  go  quietly  to  the  country. 
But  his  vision,  instead  of  narrowing  down  his  concep- 


WILBERFORCE 


271 


tion  of  duty,  broadened  it  out.  “ To  shut  myself  up,” 
he  said  to  his  mother,  “ would  merit  no  better  name 
than  desertion.  It  would  be  flying  from  the  post  in 
which  I have  been  placed,  and  I could  not  look  for  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  my  retirement.” 

Just  at  this  crisis  he  came  under  the  influence  of  two 
or  three  people  who  felt  intensely  on  the  slavery  ques- 
tion, and  in  him  they  saw  the  very  Parliamentary  cham- 
pion they  needed.  With  his  great  influence,  his  powers 
of  speech,  his  many  friends,  his  independent  character, 
and  his  high  enthusiasms,  Wilberforce  seemed  destined 
for  this  work,  and  he  eagerly  grasped  it.  Here  was  a 
direct  call  from  God,  and  to  him  now  every  gift,  every 
power  he  possessed  was  held  as  a sacred  trust.  Besides, 
he  was  respected  by  all  parties  in  the  House,  and  the 
hope  of  the  Anti-Slavery  party  lay  in  their  cause  being 
non-political.  Victory  could  only  crown  their  efforts 
when  the  whole  moral  feeling  of  the  nation  was  aroused, 
and  much,  very  much  hung  on  their  choice  of  a leader. 
“ Mr.  Wilberforce,”  said  Granville  Sharp,  “ with  his 
position  as  member  for  the  largest  county,  the  great 
influence  of  his  personal  connections,  added  to  his 
unblemished  character,  will  secure  every  advantage  to 
the  cause.’’  So  from  the  year  1787,  William  Wilber- 
force, chivalrous  as  any  knight  of  old,  gave  up  his  life  to 
the  righting  of  a great  wrong  and  to  the  deliverance  of 
the  oppressed. 

For  twenty  years  the  fight  went  on,  and  though  he 
was  successfully  opposed  over  and  over  again  by  the 
strong  West  Indian  party,  assisted  by  many  of  the 


272  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Tories  and  the  majority  in  the  House  of  Lords,  he  was 
never  baffled  or  disheartened. 

“ I am  in  no  degree  discouraged,”  he  said  after  one 
defeat.  “ It  is  again  my  intention  to  move  next  year 
for  the  abolition,  and  though  I dare  not  hope  to  carry 
the  bill  through  both  Houses,  yet,  if  I do  not  deceive 
myself,  this  infamous  and  wicked  traffic  will  not  last  out 
the  century.” 

Both  Pitt  and  Fox  supported  Wilberforce,  but  the 
opposition  was  solid  and  wealthy,  and  the  bill  above  men- 
tioned, brought  in  during  the  session  of  1796,  was  again 
defeated  by  78  votes  to  61.  The  Revolution  in  France 
was  causing  much  excitement  and  apprehension  among 
all  classes  of  Englishmen,  and  the  opponents  of  Wilber- 
force attempted,  among  other  things,  to  prove  that  he 
was  at  heart  a revolutionist,  and  that  his  efforts  to 
set  free  a class  who  had  always  been  kept  in  slavery 
showed  that  he  believed  in  the  revolutionary  “ rights  of 
men.” 

“ There  is  no  greater  enemy  to  all  such  delusions,” 
Pitt  warmly  and  indignantly  made  reply. 

But  by  1804  a change  had  come  about.  All  fears 
regarding  a revolution  in  England  were  allayed ; every 
year  Wilberforce  and  his  party,  by  their  steady  per- 
sistence, their  moderation,  and  their  powerful  appeals 
to  the  highest  motives,  had  gained  converts  to  their 
cause  both  in  and  out  of  Parliament,  and  the  Bill  of 
May  30,  1804,  was  carried  in  the  Commons  by  a 
majority  of  over  70.  This  was  by  far  the  greatest 

triumph  Wilberforce  had  yet  gained,  but  to  his  regret  it 


WILBERFORCE 


273 


was  not  proceeded  with  by  the  House  of  Lords,  who 
had  thrown  out  the  two  previous  bills,  though,  in  fairness 
be  it  said,  the  majorities  with  which  they  had  come  from 
the  Commons  had  been  very  small.  However,  the  Abo- 
litionists were  by  now  accustomed  to  possessing  their 
souls  in  patience,  and  they  knew  the  tide  had  turned  in 
their  favour.  The  death  of  Pitt  put  Fox,  who  of  the 
two  men  was  the  more  zealous  supporter  of  their  cause, 
into  power ; he  prevailed  upon  a majority  in  the  Cabinet 
to  declare  that  the  slave  trade  was  contrary  to  the 
principles  of  justice,  humanity,  and  sound  policy,  and 
should  be  abolished  by  the  House  with  all  practicable 
expediency.  In  1807  the  bill  was  again  brought  in, 
this  time  to  be  carried  by  a majority  of  283  to  16. 
The  Solicitor-General  made  a powerful  speech,  in  which 
he  contrasted  the  feelings  of  the  Emperor  of  the  French 
in  all  his  greatness  with  those  of  that  “ honoured  man 
who  would  soon  lay  his  head  on  his  pillow,  knowing  that 
the  slave  trade  was  no  more.”  At  this  reference  to 
Wilberforce  the  House  burst  into  delighted  applause. 
They  had  seen  him  during  his  many  years  of  brave 
fighting,  and  now  that  victory  was  at  hand,  they  cheered 
him  with  such  cheers  as  had  seldom  before  been  given 
to  any  man  sitting  in  his  place  in  either  House. 
Further  opposition  was  useless,  and  the  bill  became 
law. 

“ God  will  bless  this  country,”  was  Wilberforce’ s 
earnest  declaration,  in  the  gladdest,  proudest  moment  of 
his  life.  His  own  share  in  the  good  work  he  counted  as 
nothing. 

s 


274  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Much  was  won,  but  not  all.  The  slave  trade  was 
abolished — that  is  to  say,  slaves  could  not  be  taken  to 
any  British  possession,  or  put  on  any  British  ships,  and 
our  warships  were  instructed  to  capture  any  vessels 
disobeying  this  order.  Yet  slaves  were  still  held  by 
British  masters  in  the  West  Indies  and  on  the  American 
coast.  Wilberforce,  far  from  resting  content  with  his 
victory,  made  ready  for  a second  fight,  having  now  for 
his  lieutenant  in  the  House  of  Commons,  Fowell  Buxton, 
called  Elephant  Buxton,  on  account  of  his  great  size, 
a man  as  energetic  and  indefatigable  by  nature  as  he 
was  powerful  in  appearance.  However  sad  the  lot  of 
the  slaves,  they  had  been  bought  and  paid  for  under 
the  old  law  by  their  masters,  just  as  if  they  had  been 
cattle  or  any  other  marketable  produce,  so  that  if  they 
were  to  be  set  free  by  law,  the  money  spent  on  them 
must  in  honour  be  returned  to  these  masters,  or  other- 
wise they  would  be  ruined,  and  a great  injustice  would 
be  done.  To  compensate  the  owners,  and  thus  honour- 
ably to  free  every  slave,  required  a large  sum  of 
money,  not  less  than  ,£20,000,000;  but  so  changed 
had  become  public  opinion  throughout  England,  and 
consequently  in  Parliament,  that  the  money  was  voted 
in  1833.  For  the  last  few  years  Wilberforce  had  been 
in  failing  health,  and  his  old  place  in  the  House  of 
Commons  knew  him  no  more ; but  Buxton  had  valiantly 
carried  on  the  work,  in  a spirit  best  illustrated  by  some 
words  of  his  own  : — 

“ The  longer  I live,  the  more  certain  I am  that  the 
great  difference  between  men,  between  the  feeble  and 


WILBERFORCE 


275 


the  powerful,  the  great  and  the  insignificant,  is  energy, 
invincible  determination— a,  purpose  once  fixed,  and  then, 
death  or  victory ! That  quality  will  do  anything  that 
can  be  done  in  the  world,  and  no  talents,  no  circum- 
stances, no  opportunities,  will  make  a two-legged  creature 
a man  without  it.” 

Wilberforce  just  lived  to  hear  the  glorious  news 
which  crowned  his  life  and  work,  and  to  realise  that 
from  that  day  forward  there  would  not  exist  a slave 
in  any  British  colony.  It  was  the  great  triumph  of 
righteousness,  and  humbly  he  thanked  God  that  his  had 
been  the  privilege  of  leading  the  little  army  which  had 
gone  on  from  strength  to  strength  until  its  mission  was 
accomplished.  Two  or  three  days  later  he  passed  peace- 
fully away,  and  immediately  after  his  death  this  letter, 
signed  by  all  the  leading  members  of  both  Houses  of 
Parliament,  was  sent  to  his  son : — 

“We  being  anxious  upon  public  grounds  to  show  our 
respect  for  the  memory  of  the  late  William  Wilberforce, 
and  being  also  satisfied  that  public  honours  cannot  be 
more  fitly  bestowed  than  upon  such  benefactors  of  man- 
kind, earnestly  request  that  he  may  be  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  and  that  we,  with  others  who  agree  with 
us  in  these  sentiments,  may  have  permission  to  attend 
the  funeral.” 

So  to  the  Abbey  he  was  brought.  All  public  busi- 
ness was  suspended,  and  public  men  of  every  rank 
followed  him  to  the  grave.  Members  of  Parliament 
were  there  in  numbers  to  show  their  reverence  for  one 
whose  eloquence  had  ever  been  put  to  the  noblest  uses, 


276  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and,  fitly  enough,  his  body  was  laid  close  to  the  tombs  of 
Pitt  and  Fox. 

“ If  you  carry  this  point  in  your  life,  that  life  will 
be  far  better  spent  than  in  being  prime  minister  many 
years,”  a much-loved  friend  had  said  to  Wilberforce  when 
he  first  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  the  cause  of  the 
slave,  and  to  set  aside  all  thought  of  his  own  career  and 
ambition.  The  young  enthusiast  had  counted  the  cost, 
but  it  had  not  changed  him  from  his  determination,  and 
though  he  lived  and  died  plain  William  Wilberforce, 
member  of  parliament,  the  Abbey  roll  of  honour  is  made 
richer  by  his  name,  and  he  rests  worthily  in  the  States- 
men’s Corner,  great  as  any  of  those  among  whom  he 
lies. 

Just  as  Wilberforce  was  nearing  the  close  of  his  life, 
a young  spinner  in  some  mills  near  Glasgow,  glowing 
with  enthusiasm,  was  resolving  to  offer  himself  as  a 
medical  missionary  to  China  or  Africa.  David  Living- 
stone, for  he  it  was,  came  of  homely  Scottish  stock. 

“ The  only  point  of  family  tradition  I feel  proud  of 
is  this,”  he  declared.  “ One  of  my  forefathers,  when  on 
his  death-bed,  called  his  children  round  him  and  said, 
‘ I have  searched  diligently  throughout  all  the  traditions 
of  our  family,  and  I never  could  find  there  was  a dis- 
honest man  among  them.  ...  So  I leave  this  precept 
with  you,  Be  honest.’  ” 

And  perfectly  honest  David  Livingstone  certainly 
was  to  the  end  of  his  days.  Though  he  went  to  work 
in  the  mills  when  ten  years  old,  his  love  of  books  made 


1 Talker  & Cockerell. 


David  Livingstone. 


LIVINGSTONE 


277 

him  learn  eagerly  in  every  spare  moment  and  on  so  late 
into  the  night,  that  his  mother,  half  in  anger,  half  in 
pride,  often  went  to  him  at  midnight  and  carried  off  every 
available  light.  However  David  was  a sturdy  youth, 
or  twelve  hours’  work  each  day  in  the  factory  added  to 
six  hours’  reading  would  have  ruined  his  health.  He 
was  twenty-five  when  he  offered  himself  to  the  London 
Missionary  Society,  and  he  was  sent  for  a three  months’ 
trial  to  a training-place  in  Essex.  But  when  he  had  to 
deliver  his  first  sermon,  every  idea  fled  from  his  brain. 
“ I have  forgotten  all  I had  to  say,  friends,”  he  announced 
frankly,  and  left  the  pulpit.  But  for  his  other  sterling 
qualities,  this  would  have  put  an  end  to  his  career.  As 
it  was,  he  was  given  another  three  months  and  came 
successfully  out  of  the  ordeal,  after  which  he  went  for 
two  years  to  a London  hospital.  Africa  was  to  be  his 
destination.  “ Don’t  go  to  an  old  station,”  Dr.  Moffat, 
the  veteran  missionary,  said  to  him  on  the  eve  of  his 
ordination.  “ But  push  on  to  the  vast  unoccupied  dis- 
trict to  the  north,  where  on  a clear  morning  I have 
seen  the  smoke  of  a thousand  villages  no  missionary  has 
ever  reached.”  Kuruman,  an  important  station  of  the 
Missionary  Society,  more  than  seven  hundred  miles  up 
country,  was  his  first  halting-place  after  leaving  Cape 
Town,  and  he  set  himself  with  great  energy  to  learn  the 
language  of  the  natives,  acting  at  the  same  time  as  their 
doctor.  In  this  last  capacity  he  soon  made  his  name 
famous,  and  patients  came  to  him  over  enormous  dis- 
tances. Splendid  patients  they  were  too,  he  always 
declared,  perfectly  obedient  and  of  extraordinary  courage. 


278  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


When  once  he  had  mastered  their  language,  which  he 
did  in  a short  while,  he  combined  his  missionary  and 
medical  work  very  happily. 

In  1843  left  Kuruman  to  form  a new  station 
about  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north-east  at  Mabotsa, 
and  whilst  here  he  married  a daughter  of  Dr.  Moffat,  a 
girl  who  had  lived  among  missionaries  for  many  years, 
and  so  was  accustomed  to  the  rough,  solitary  existence 
which  would  be  her  lot.  “ My  time,”  wrote  Livingstone 
to  a friend,  “ is  filled  up  with  building,  gardening,  cobbling, 
doctoring,  tinkering,  carpentering,  gun-mending,  farrier- 
ing,  preaching,  schooling,  teaching,  and  lecturing,  while 
my  wife,  in  addition  to  her  usual  work,  makes  clothes, 
soap,  and  candles,  and  teaches  classes  of  children.” 

Gradually  it  dawned  upon  Livingstone  that  a great 
work  awaited  him  in  the  interior,  but  it  was  a work 
which  he  must  face  alone.  “ I must  not  be  a more 
sorry  soldier  than  those  who  serve  an  earthly  sovereign,” 
he  wrote  to  the  Directors  of  the  Mission,  to  whose  care 
he  commended  his  family.  “ And  so  powerfully  am  I 
convinced  it  is  the  will  of  God,  that  I will  go,  no  matter 
who  opposes.” 

Therefore  in  1852,  having  seen  his  wife  and  children 
off  to  England,  he  started  in  his  Cape  waggon  and  again 
made  for  Kuruman,  after  leaving  which  he  was  constantly 
harassed  by  parties  of  Boers,  who  believed  he  was 
teaching  their  slaves  to  rise  in  revolt.  But  he  reached 
the  land  of  Sebituan,  a friendly  chief,  safely,  and  found 
the  warmest  welcome  awaiting  him.  As  doctor  and 
missionary  his  hands  were  full,  and  seeing  the  field  of 


LIVINGSTONE 


279 


work  opening  all  around  him,  he  grew  more  and  more 
anxious  to  become  the  pioneer  missioner  to  the  very 
interior.  Fever,  he  realised,  would  be  his  worst  enemy. 
“I  would  like,”  he  wrote  in  his  journal,  “to  discover 
some  remedy  for  that  terrible  disease.  I must  go  to 
parts  where  it  prevails  most  and  try  to  discover  if  the 
natives  have  a remedy  for  it.  ...  I mean  to  open  up  a 
path  to  the  interior  or  perish.  I never  have  had  the 
shadow  of  a doubt.  Cannot  the  love  of  Christ  carry  the 
missionary  where  the  slave  trade  carries  the  trader  ? ” 
The  travels  of  Livingstone  through  that  unknown 
country  which  he  practically  discovered,  would  have  to 
be  closely  followed  on  a map  from  point  to  point  to 
be  made  clear.  Otherwise  they  are  a mere  string  of 
strange  names.  He  set  out  in  the  November  of  1853. 
“ I had  three  muskets  for  my  people  and  a double- 
barrelled  gun  for  myself,”  he  said.  “My  ammunition 
was  distributed  through  the  luggage,  that  we  might  not 
be  left  without  a supply.  Our  chief  hopes  for  food  were 
in  our  guns.  I carried  twenty  pounds  of  beads,  a 
few  pounds  of  tea,  sugar,  and  coffee.  One  tin  canister 
was  filled  with  spare  clothes,  another  was  stored  with 
medicines,  a third  with  books,  and  a fourth  with  a 
magic  lantern.  A small  tent,  a sheep-skin,  and  a horse- 
rug  completed  my  equipment,  as  an  array  of  baggage 
would  have  excited  the  tribes.”  Four  years  later,  worn 
out  by  frequent  attacks  of  fever,  but  otherwise  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  journeyings  into  parts 
where  as  yet  no  other  Englishman  had  penetrated, 
Livingstone  sailed  for  England,  having  heard  nothing  of 


280  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


his  family  for  three  years.  He  at  once  became  the 
hero  of  the  hour ; dinners  were  given,  speeches  were 
made  in  his  honour,  and  he  was  asked  to  equip  and 
command  a government  expedition  for  the  exploration 
of  that  part  of  South-Eastern  Africa  through  which  the 
river  Zambesi  flows.  After  some  consideration  he  de- 
cided to  undertake  this,  though  it  meant  that  from 
henceforth  he  would  cease  to  be  a missionary  pure  and 
simple.  But  he  looked  at  the  question  in  its  broadest 
aspect.  “ Wherever  I go,”  he  said,  “ I go  as  the  servant 
of  God,  following  the  leadings  of  His  Hand.  My  ideal 
of  a missionary  is  not  that  of  a dumpy  man  with  a Bible 
under  his  arm.  I feel  I am  not  my  own.  I am  serv- 
ing Christ  in  labouring  as  well  as  in  preaching,  and 
having  by  His  help  got  information  which  I hope  will 
bring  blessing  to  Africa,  am  I to  hide  the  light  under  a 
bushel,  because  some  will  not  consider  it  sufficiently 
or  even  at  all  missionary  ? I refrain  from  taking  any 
salary  from  Missionary  Societies,  so  no  loss  is  sustained 
by  any  one.” 

In  the  March  of  1858  he  returned  to  his  work,  and 
Mrs.  Livingstone  started  with  him  to  go  at  least  as 
far  as  Ivuruman.  This  second  Zambesi  expedition  lasted 
nearly  six  years,  and  as  Livingstone  stood  on  the  shores 
of  Lake  Nyasa,  he  was  able  to  feel  that  he  stood  where 
no  white  man  had  ever  stood  before  him.  Three  years 
later,  Bishop  Mackenzie  and  six  missionaries  followed 
him  here,  but  among  the  many  sorrows  which  fell  upon 
him  about  this  time,  was  the  death  of  the  “ good  bishop  ” 
from  fever,  the  death  of  his  own  wife,  and  the  growing 


LIVINGSTONE 


281 


feeling  that  the  extreme  unhealthiness  of  the  district 
would  make  anything  like  colonisation  impossible.  His 
third  great  journey,  commenced  in  1866,  was  his  last, 
and  when  more  than  three  years  passed  by  without  any 
tidings  of  him,  owing  to  his  long  stay  in  the  country  of 
the  cannibal  Mauyema,  the  editor  of  the  New  York 
Herald  equipped  an  expedition  to  go  in  search  of  him 
the  man  in  charge  of  it  being  Henry  Stanley,  whose 
orders  were  “ to  find  Livingstone,  living  or  dead.”  It 
was  in  1871  that  the  two  men  met  face  to  face  at 
Tanganyika,  and  the  relieving  party  found  the  object 
of  their  search  almost  alone,  worn  out,  fever-stricken, 
cut  off  from  all  news  of  his  children,  and  as  near  to 
despair  as  was  possible  to  one  of  his  strong  faith  and 
brave  nature.  But  when  Stanley,  after  many  attacks 
of  fever,  returned  to  Europe,  he  could  not  persuade  his 
companion  to  leave  the  country,  which  held  him  as  a 
magnet.  He  was  determined  to  find  the  sources  of 
the  Nile,  and  the  determination  cost  him  his  life.  The 
district  through  which  he  fought  his  way  has  been 
described  as  “ one  vast  sponge,”  and  was  poisonous  to 
the  last  degree.  His  strength  failed,  and  though  his 
faithful  natives  bore  him  along  on  a litter  with  the 
utmost  tenderness,  his  sufferings  were  terrible.  He 
died  on  the  first  of  May  1873,  alone  save  for  his  natives, 
“the  greatest  and  best  man  who  ever  explored  Africa.” 
Believing  that  to  labour  is  to  pray,  if  the  work  be  done 
for  God’s  glory  and  not  for  self-advancement,  David 
Livingstone’s  life  had  been  one  long  prayer,  and  through- 
out those  lonely  dangerous  journeyings  the  sense  of  God’s 


282  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Presence  had  been  his  stay  and  comfort.  Around  the  last 
hours  of  the  brave  man  a veil  is  drawn.  But  who  can 
doubt  that  the  love  of  God  overshadowed  him,  and 
made  even  that  desolate,  marsh-like  place  a road  of 
light,  along  which  the  worn-out  traveller  passed  to  Him, 
his  one  true  goal  ? 

His  native  servants  behaved  with  beautiful  devotion, 
and  would  not  leave  him  alone  in  death.  His  heart 
they  buried  where  he  died,  but  as  best  they  could  they 
embalmed  his  body,  and  by  slow  stages  made  their  way 
towards  the  coast  with  their  precious  burden,  which  they 
were  determined  somehow  to  get  to  England.  At  one  time 
every  one  of  them  was  stricken  down  by  the  terrible  fever, 
but  on  they  went  for  many  a month,  through  swamp 
and  desert  and  through  hostile  lands.  Nothing  could 
daunt  them.  Their  master  must  lie  in  his  home,  far 
away,  over  the  seas.  When  at  last  they  reached  Zan- 
zibar and  handed  over  the  trust  they  had  so  loyally 
guarded,  they  barely  received  a word  of  thanks.  But 
one  friend  of  Livingstone’s  came  forward  just  in  time, 
and  undertook  to  pay  all  expenses  for  two  of  their 
number  to  go  to  England  and  be  present  at  the  funeral. 
Susi  and  Chuma,  two  of  the  slaves  the  Doctor  had  freed, 
and  his  most  devoted  attendants,  were  chosen  to  go 
with  their  master  till  the  end  of  his  journey.  It  was 
almost  a year  after  his  death  when  the  great  traveller 
was  borne  into  the  Abbey,  and  those  two  stood  there 
among  the  mourners,  awe-struck  but  contented.  Their 
task  was  accomplished ; the  white  man  who  had  been 
their  deliverer  lay  among  his  own  people. 


SHAFTESBURY 


283 


A very  simple  inscription,  ending  with  the  words, 
“ Other  sheep  I have  which  are  not  of  this  fold.  Them 
also  must  I bring,”  marks  the  place  in  the  nave  where, 
with  a curious  significance,  Livingstone,  an  architect  of 
the  Empire,  lies  close  to  other  architects,  Sir  Charles 
Barry,  Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  and  John  Pearson,  whose 
works  are  to  be  seen  in  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  Westminster  Hall. 

We  cannot  leave  these  lovers  of  humanity  without 
one  glance  at  the  statue  of  the  good  Earl  of  Shaftesbury, 
the  friend  of  little  children  and  of  all  those  who  were 
desolate  and  oppressed.  Possessed  of  all  that  could  make 
life  attractive  to  him,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  dying  day 
to  the  service  of  his  fellows,  and  his  name  will  go  down 
to  history  as  the  liberator  of  the  white  slaves  in  England. 
For,  as  Wilberforce  championed  the  negro,  Shaftesbury 
fought  long  and  steadily  in  the  cause  of  the  women  and 
children  employed  in  factories  and  collieries,  who  worked 
sometimes  for  thirty-six  hours  at  a time  under  the  most 
appalling  conditions.  At  last  he  forced  Parliament  to 
take  action,  and  to  pass  the  Ten  Hours’  Bill,  besides  in- 
sisting that  factory  inspectors  were  appointed  to  see  that 
all  workers  were  protected  as  the  law  intended  they  should 
be.  That  was  his  greatest  work,  but  to  tell  of  all  that 
he  did  would  fill  a volume  with  a record  of  golden  deeds. 
Ever  ready  to  lead  an  unpopular  cause ; an  enthusiast 
without  being  a fanatic ; strong,  clear-headed,  steadfast, 
reliable,  and  single-hearted,  he  stands  out  a noble  figure 
in  the  social  history  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Just 
before  his  death,  in  1885,  his  friend,  Dean  Stanley, 


284  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


in  writing  to  him,  spoke  of  Westminster  Abbey  as  the 
place  where  he  should  rest.  But  the  old  man  shook 
his  head  and  begged  to  be  buried  in  his  country  home. 

However,  the  Abbey  could  not  altogether  refrain 
from  doing  him  honour,  and  through  streets  lined  with 
people,  many  of  them  the  poorest  in  the  land,  most  of 
them  wearing  some  outward  sign  of  mourning,  a bit 
of  black  ribbon  or  a scrap  of  crape,  followed  by  deputa- 
tions from  almost  every  charitable  association,  the  coffin 
was  carried  to  Westminster.  Around  it  stood  high  and 
low,  rich  and  poor.  The  wreaths  sent  by  royal  princes  lay 
side  by  side  with  the  tributes  from  the  flower-girls  and 
the  boys  on  the  training-ships.  A mighty  volume  of 
sound  ascended  to  the  vaulted  roof,  as  the  familiar  hymn 
was  sung — 

“ Let  saints  on  earth  in  concert  sing, 

With  those  whose  rest  is  won, 

For  all  the  servants  of  our  King 
In  earth  and  heaven  are  one  ! ” 

Then  the  organ  ceased,  the  Blessing  was  given,  and  the 
great  procession  left  the  Abbey  to  the  march  of  the  coster- 
mongers’ band,  to  the  tramp  of  thousands  of  feet,  whose 
way  in  life  he  had  made  more  easy  and  more  blessed. 

In  the  north  aisle  of  the  nave  rest  three  great  men, 
builders  in  another  way,  who  have  served  the  world  by 
their  thoughts — Newton,  Herschel,  and  Darwin. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton  made  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
discoveries  in  the  world  of  science  and  nature,  the  law 
of  gravitation,  and  also  invented  a method  by  which 
the  whole  course  of  a comet  could  be  calculated.  On  his 


HERSCHEL 


285 


monument  you  will  see  a globe,  covered  with  constella- 
tions and  the  path  of  a comet,  while  below  are  groups  of 
children  weighing  the  sun  and  the  moon.  The  long  Latin 
epitaph  was  one  which  greatly  offended  Dr.  Johnson,  who 
said  that  “ none  but  philosophers  could  understand  it.” 
Sir  John  Herschel  was  the  son  of  a distinguished 
father,  and  from  his  boyhood  he  resolved  to  follow  in 
his  father’s  footsteps.  “ To  put  my  shoulders  to  the 
wheel,  and  to  leave  the  world  a little  better  than  I found 
it,”  was  the  ideal  he  set  before  himself  whilst  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  in  this  spirit  he  carried  on  the  work  of  making 
a careful  study  of  the  stars  in  the  southern  hemisphere, 
which  had  never  been  done  before. 

Besides  astronomy  he  was  devoted  to  books,  especially 
to  poetry,  and  translated  many  of  Schiller’s  poems,  as 
well  as  parts  of  the  “ Iliad,”  into  English.  “ Give  a 
man,”  he  said,  “ once  the  taste  for  reading  good  books, 
and  you  place  him  in  contact  with  the  best  society  in 
every  period  of  history,  with  the  wisest,  the  wittiest,  the 
tenderest,  the  bravest,  and  the  purest  of  characters  who 
have  adorned  humanity.  You  make  him  a denizen  of 
all  nations,  a contemporary  of  all  ages.” 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  stars  ; his  heart  was  ever 
set  on  those  things  that  are  above.  These  are  the 
beautiful  words  in  which  he  has  described  the  object 
and  the  end  of  all  his  study : — • 

“ To  spring  even  a little  way  aloft,  to  carol  for  awhile 
in  bright  and  sunny  regions — to  open  the  doors  of  the 
human  mind  to  let  in  light  and  knowledge,  always 
sure  that  right  will  come  right  at  last — to  rise  to  the 


286  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


level  of  our  strength,  and  if  we  must  sink  again,  to  sink 
not  exhausted  but  exercised,  not  dulled  in  spirit,  but 
cheered  in  heart- — such  may  be  the  contented  and  happy 
lot  of  him  who  can  repose  with  equal  confidence  on  the 
bosom  of  the  earth,  or  ride  above  the  mists  of  earth 
into  the  empyrean  day.” 

He  died  loaded  with  honours  in  1871,  though  no  man 
sought  fame  or  honour  less. 

“ Enough  if  cleansed  at  last  from  earthly  stain, 

My  homeward  step  he  firm,  and  pure  my  eveniug  sky.” 

Thus  had  he  written,  and  how  could  longing  soar 
higher  ? 

Charles  Darwin  was  perhaps  the  greatest  man  of  the 
three,  for  after  long  years  of  patient  hard  work,  bravely 
carried  on  through  bad  health,  he  produced  as  the  result 
of  his  experiments  a wonderful  book  called  “ The  Origin 
of  Species,”  in  which  he  explained  how  the  world,  instead 
of  being  created  all  at  once  as  it  is  to-day,  has  grown 
slowly  and  very  gradually,  through  many  processes,  just 
as  we  ourselves,  our  minds,  and  all  our  powers  have  de- 
veloped from  a state  of  savagery  into  our  present  state 
of  civilisation.  When  first  Darwin  published  his  work 
explaining  all  this,  some  people  were  frightened  and 
horrified,  and  declared  that  he  wanted  to  upset  all 
the  old  ideas  about  God  and  religion.  But  thus  they 
had  said  whenever  a new  discovery  had  been  made, 
and  yet  with  each  new  discovery  we  have  only  learnt 
more  and  more  how  great  God  is,  and  how — 

“ He  moves  in  a mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform.” 


I Talker  &-  Cockerell. 


Charles  Darwin. 


DARWIN 


287 


So  all  such  great  discoverers  as  Newton,  Herschel,  and 
Darwin  give  us  in  reality  the  same  message,  which  is 
never  to  be  afraid  of  truth,  for  truth  comes  from  God, 
and  the  only  danger  is  when  we  doubt,  even  for  a 
moment,  that  it  must  come  triumphant  out  of  every 
honest  discussion. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER 

When  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  was  buried  in  the 
north  transept  at  Westminster  Abbey  in  the  year  1778, 
Parliament  having  decreed  that  “ he  ought  to  be  brought 
near  to  the  dust  of  kings,”  and  not  lie  in  St.  Paul’s 
Cathedral,  earnestly  though  the  City  of  London  begged 
for  this  favour,  he  drew  to  that  part  of  the  Abbey  so 
many  distinguished  ministers  of  the  Crown,  that  it  soon 
received  the  name  of  the  Statesmen’s  Corner,  in  dis- 
tinction to  the  Poets’  Corner  which  Chaucer  had  created. 
Pitt  the  elder  and  Pitt  the  younger,  Fox,  Canning, 
Palmerston,  Castlereagh,  Grattan,  and  Gladstone — these 
are  the  names  which  most  closely  belong  to  the  States- 
men’s Corner,  and  through  their  lives  we  can  catch 
glimpses  of  English  political  life  from  the  reign  of 
George  II.  down  to  our  own  day. 

William  Pitt  entered  Parliament  in  1735,  and  joined 
the  party  calling  themselves  the  Patriots,  rallying 
round  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was  always  at  enmity 
with  the  King  and  Queen.  This  party  naturally  in- 
cluded any  one  opposed  to  Walpole,  still  the  all-powerful 
minister  at  Court.  The  Patriots  were  young  men,  talented 
and  vigorous,  and  their  first  signal  victory  was  obtained 

288 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  289 


when  they  forced  Walpole  into  declaring  war  against 
Spain,  that  country,  they  insisted,  having  systematical^ 
hampered,  injured,  and  insulted  British  traders,  in  spite 
of  treaties  and  negotiations.  Walpole  was  before  all 
else  a peace  minister ; but  the  Patriots,  supported  by  the 
country,  declared  that  war  was  necessary  if  England 
was  to  uphold  her  position  and  power  on  the  seas, 
and  Pitt,  full  of  energy  and  eloquence,  was  one  of 
the  most  powerful,  though  one  of  the  youngest,  among 
the  Patriots.  This  war,  as  Walpole  had  foreseen,  was 
but  the  prelude  to  a general  disturbance ; England  be- 
came involved  in  Continental  quarrels,  and  the  Stuart 
party  seized  this  opportunity  of  making  a final,  though 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  place  Prince  Charles  Edward  on 
the  throne.  After  nine  years  a treaty  of  peace  was 
signed  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  broadly  speaking,  the 
result  of  the  war,  so  far  as  this  country  was  concerned, 
was  that  we  had  been  successful  on  the  seas,  in  Canada, 
and  in  India,  unsuccessful  on  the  Continent.  Walpole 
had  resigned,  Newcastle  was  a Prime  Minister  “ who 
had  neither  judgment  nor  ability,”  and  Pitt  became 
more  and  more  the  ruling  power.  The  year  1757  saw 
him  virtually  Prime  Minister,  and  with  his  whole  might 
he  set  himself  to  arouse  a national  spirit  in  England,  to 
make  the  people  see  that  our  real  future  lay  not  in  the 
Continent,  but  in  the  Colonies.  “ I can  save  this 
country,  nobody  else  can,”  he  said  confidently  at  this 
time,  and  it  was  no  vain  boast.  The  years  which 
followed  were  glorious  years.  In  India,  France  had 
joined  with  a powerful  native  prince  to  oust  the  British 


290  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


traders,  and  had  been  utterly  defeated  at  Plassey  by 
the  genius  of  Clive,  who  bad  but  a handful  of  troops 
as  against  seventy  thousand.  That  victory  made  the 
British  masters  of  the  whole  province  of  Bengal,  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  our  Indian  Empire.  From 
henceforward  the  French  power  in  India  rapidly  de- 
clined. In  America  an  equal  triumph  crowned  Pitt’s 
policy.  In  Wolfe  he  had  found  a man  able  to  do 
in  the  West  what  Clive  did  in  the  East,  and  Canada 
became  a British  Colony.  Wolfe  himself  fell  in  the 
great  struggle  for  Quebec,  as  did  Montcalm,  his  rival 
French  general,  and  a monument  stands  in  the  north 
ambulatory  of  the  Abbey  to  the  memory  of  the  gallant 
young  leader,  who  died  in  the  hour  of  his  victory.  “ It 
is  necessary  to  watch  for  a victory  every  morning  for 
fear  of  missing  one,”  was  the  remark  of  Walpole’s  son 
Horace.  And  the  nation  felt  that  it  was  Pitt  whose 
policy  and  whose  power  had  made  all  these  things 
possible.  Parliament  was  entirely  in  his  hands,  he 
swayed  the  Commons  by  his  eloquence  just  as  he  im- 
pressed them  by  his  strength ; the  King  supported  him, 
and  the  people  adored  him. 

But  in  1760  George  II.  died,  and  his  second  son 
George,  who  succeeded  him  (Frederick  Prince  of  Wales 
having  died),  did  not  care  for  a minister  so  fearless  and 
independent.  Neither  was  Pitt  without  enemies.  When 
he  saw  that  his  opponents,  supported  by  the  King, 
were  determined  to  make  a peace  with  France  of  which 
he  could  not  approve,  he  resigned,  after  making  a power- 
ful speech  though  he  was  very  ill  at  the  time.  His  words 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  291 


concluded  thus : “ It  is  because  I see  in  this  treaty 
the  seeds  of  a future  war  that  it  meets  with  my  most 
hearty  disapprobation.  The  peace  is  insecure,  because 
it  restores  the  enemy  to  his  former  greatness ; the  peace 
is  inadequate,  because  the  places  gained  are  no  equiva- 
lent for  the  places  surrendered.”  Before  a year  was 
over,  all  that  Pitt  foretold  had  come  to  pass,  and 
England  was  again  at  war  with  Spain.  Bute,  who 
had  been  virtually  Prime  Minister  since  Pitt  gave  up 
office,  now  resigned,  leaving  in  power  Grenville,  the 
leader  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  in  a very  short 
time  Grenville  brought  forward  a measure  concerning 
America,  which  was  so  short-sighted  and  so  opposed  to 
the  colonial  spirit,  that  it  could  only  have  a disastrous 
ending.  Practically  all  North  America  was  in  British 
hands,  and  it  was  divided  into  thirteen  different  States, 
besides  Canada.  Those  States  had  their  own  Colonial 
Assemblies,  but  the  supreme  power  rested  with  the 
British  Parliament.  In  1765  Grenville  brought  in  the 
Stamp  Act,  by  which  American  colonists  had  to  use 
legal  paper  stamped  in  England  for  all  their  agreements, 
and  this  was  carried  without  the  consent  of  the 
colonists,  as  they  had  no  representatives  in  Parliament, 
so  that  besides  imposing  a tax  on  them,  Parliament  had 
really  tampered  with  one  of  their  most  sacred  rights 
as  British  subjects.  The  Act  was  very  badly  received 
in  America,  and  relations  became  so  strained  that  Pitt, 
to  whom  any  matter  affecting  the  Colonies  was  very 
dear,  came  out  of  his  retirement  to  protest  against  the 
Act,  and  brought  all  his  splendid  fearless  eloquence  to  bear 


292  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


on  the  subject.  “ This  kingdom  has  no  right  to  tax  the 
Colonies,”  he  argued,  and  he  went  on  to  declare — 

“ I rejoice  that  America  has  resisted.  Three  millions 
of  people  so  dead  to  all  feelings  of  liberty  as  voluntarily 
to  submit  to  be  slaves,  would  have  been  fit  instru- 
ments to  make  slaves  of  the  rest.  . . . The  Commons 
of  America  have  ever  been  in  possession  of  their  consti- 
tutional right  of  giving  and  granting  their  own  money. 
They  would  have  been  slaves  if  they  had  not  enjoyed 
it.  ...  A gentleman  asks,  ‘ When  were  the  Colonies 
emancipated  ? ’ I desire  to  know  when  were  they  made 
slaves  ? . . . I stand  up  for  this  kingdom.  I maintain 
that  our  legislative  power  over  the  Colonies  is  sovereign 
and  supreme  in  every  circumstance  of  government  and 
legislation.  But  taxation  is  no  part  of  the  governing 
or  legislative  power.  Taxes  are  a voluntary  gift  and 
grant  of  the  Commons  alone.  When  therefore  in  this 
House  we  give  and  grant,  we  give  and  grant  what  is 
our  own.  But  in  an  American  tax  what  do  we  do  ? 
We,  your  Majesty’s  Commons  for  Great  Britain,  give 
and  grant  to  your  Majesty — what  ? Our  own  property  ? 
No;  we  give  and  grant  to  your  Majesty  the  property  of 
your  Majesty’s  Commons  of  America.  It  is  an  absurdity 
in  terms.  I beg  leave  to  move  that  the  Stamp  Act 
be  repealed  absolutely,  totally,  and  immediately ; that 
the  reason  for  the  repeal  be  assigned  because  it  was 
founded  on  an  erroneous  principle.  At  the  same  time 
let  the  sovereign  authority  of  this  country  over  the 
Colonies  be  asserted  in  as  strong  terms  as  can  be  de- 
vised, that  we  exercise  every  power  except  that  of 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  293 


taking  their  money  out  of  their  pockets  without  their 
consent.” 

Pitt  still  held  his  sway  over  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  the  Act  was  repealed.  A few  months  later  he  was 
again  Prime  Minister,  but  now  no  longer  as  William 
Pitt,  the  great  Commoner.  He  had  accepted  a title,  to 
the  disappointment  of  many  of  his  followers,  who  had 
revered  him  in  the  past  for  hia  entire  independence ; 
and  after  he  sat  in  the  Lords  as  Earl  of  Chatham, 
his  influence  never  made  itself  felt  in  the  same  way. 
Besides,  his  health  continually  broke  down,  bravely 
though  he  struggled  against  it,  and  he  was  often  laid 
aside  for  many  months  at  a time.  During  one  of  these 
periods,  another  irritating  Act  was  passed,  taxing  all 
the  tea,  glass,  and  paper  imported  into  America,  and 
as  this  occurred  just  when  the  sore  feelings  over  the 
Stamp  Act  had  been  allayed,  it  was  particularly  un- 
fortunate. The  Colonists  looked  on  it  as  an  act  of 
revenge  for  their  victory  and  determined  to  resist  it, 
while  the  King  was  unfortunately  surrounded  by  a 
party,  of  which  Lord  North  was  the  chief,  who  urged 
him,  whatever  the  cost  might  be,  to  force  America  into 
submission.  Lord  North  becoming  Prime  Minister  was 
the  signal  for  an  outbreak  of  public  feeling  in  America ; 
riots  occurred,  and  some  tea-laden  ships  in  Boston 
harbour  were  boarded,  the  tea  being  all  thrown  into 
the  water.  Again  Chatham  raised  his  voice  on  the  side 
of  consideration,  of  common  sense,  and  of  conciliation. 

“ My  Lords,”  he  said,  after  he  had  used  one  telling 
argument  after  another  to  prove  how  useless  and  irri- 


294  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


tating  had  been  the  action  of  the  Government,  driving 
these  loyal  sons  of  the  old  country  into  actions  which 
were  the  result  of  despair,  and  which  in  cooler  moments 
they  would  heartily  regret,  “ I am  an  old  man,  and  I 
plead  for  a gentle  mode  of  governing  America,  for  the 
day  is  not  far  distant  when  America  may  vie  with  these 
kingdoms,  not  only  in  arms,  but  in  arts  also.  ...  If 
we  take  a transient  view  of  those  motives  which  in- 
duced the  ancestors  of  our  fellow-subjects  in  America 
to  leave  their  native  country  to  encounter  the  in- 
numerable difficulties  of  the  unexplored  regions  of  the 
western  world,  our  astonishment  at  the  present  conduct 
of  their  descendants  will  naturally  subside.  There  was 
no  corner  of  the  world  into  which  men  of  their  free  and 
enterprising  spirit  would  not  fly  with  alacrity  rather 
than  submit  to  the  slavish  and  tyrannical  principles 
which  prevailed  at  that  period  in  their  native  country. 
And  shall  we  wonder,  my  Lords,  if  the  descendants  of 
such  illustrious  characters  spurn  with  contempt  the  hand 
of  unconstitutional  power,  that  would  snatch  from  them 
the  dearly-bought  privilege  they  now  contend  for  ? My 
Lords,  proceed  like  a kind  and  affectionate  parent  over 
a child  whom  he  tenderly  loves.  Instead  of  these  harsh 
and  severe  proceedings,  pass  an  amnesty  on  their  youth- 
ful errors ; clasp  them  once  more  in  fond,  affectionate 
arms,  and  I venture  to  affirm  you  will  find  them  children 
worthy  of  their  sire.” 

But  his  powerful  pleading  fell  on  deaf  ears.  All  in 
vain  did  he  urge  that  though  the  Government  might  be 
revenged  on  America,  no  Government  could  conquer  it. 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  295 


In  1775  war,  terrible  as  a civil  war,  broke  out  between 
the  old  country  and  the  new.  The  Congress  raised  an 
army,  and  set  at  the  head  of  it  George  Washington.  “ The 
man  first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  first  in  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen,”  solemnly  declared  that  from  henceforth 
the  United  Colonies  would  be  free  and  independent 
States,  and  carried  on  the  campaign  with  the  utmost 
success,  assisted  by  France.  Dismayed  at  last  and 
astonished,  Lord  North  and  his  ministers  began  to  talk 
of  conciliation.  But  it  was  too  late.  Two  British 
forces,  each  of  about  four  thousand  men,  had  been  forced 
to  surrender  to  the  American  troops.  No  longer  was  it 
possible  for  England  to  make  terms. 

At  home  there  was  consternation,  irresolution,  and  a 
sense  of  deep  resentment  against  the  Government  which 
had  so  blundered.  Chatham  was  a dying  man,  but  he 
yet  had  something  to  say.  Weakness,  irresolution,  or 
fear  were  unknown  words  to  him,  even  though  now  he 
admitted — 

“ I tremble  for  this  country ; I am  almost  led  to 
despair  that  we  shall  ever  be  able  to  extricate  our- 
selves.” 

On  the  7th  of  April  1778  he  lifted  up  his  voice  for 
the  last  time,  this  time  against  an  ignominious  sur- 
render, which  the  discomfited  Government,  terrified  by 
the  action  of  France,  were  all  too  ready  to  accept. 
Conscious  himself  of  his  fast-ebbing  strength,  Chatham, 
the  Imperialist  minister  of  the  eighteenth  century,  sum- 
moned all  his  old  fire  and  eloquence  to  his  aid,  and  spoke 
with  intense  feeling,  rejoicing,  he  said,  “ that  the  grave 


296  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


had  not  yet  closed  on  him,  pressed  down  as  he  was  by 
the  hand  of  infirmity.” 

Panic-stricken,  the  Government  were  inclined  to  offer 
absolute  independence  to  all  the  Colonies.  Chatham 
vigorously  opposed  the  idea. 

“ Plis  Majesty,”  he  declared,  “ succeeded  to  an  empire 
as  great  in  extent  as  its  reputation  was  unsullied.  Shall 
we  tarnish  the  lustre  of  this  nation  by  an  ignominious 
surrender  of  its  rights  and  fairest  possessions  ? Shall 
this  great  kingdom,  that  has  survived  whole  and  entire 
the  Danish  degradations,  the  Scottish  invasion,  the 
Norman  Conquest,  that  has  stood  the  threatened  in- 
vasion of  the  Spanish  Armada,  now  fall  prostrate  before 
the  house  of  Bourbon  ? Shall  a people  that  seventeen 
years  ago  was  the  terror  of  the  world,  now  stoop  so 
low  as  to  tell  its  ancient  and  insatiate  enemy,  ‘ Take 
all  we  have : only  give  us  peace.’  In  God’s  name,  if 
it  be  absolutely  necessary  to  declare  for  peace  or  war, 
and  the  former  cannot  be  preserved  with  honour,  why 
is  not  the  latter  commenced  without  hesitation  ? My 
Lords,  any  state  is  better  than  despair.  Let  us  at  least 
make  an  effort ; and  if  we  must  fall,  let  us  fall  like 
men ! ” 

With  this  brave  appeal  Chatham  sat  down  exhausted. 
A few  moments  later  he  was  carried  fainting  out  of  the 
House,  which  at  once  adjourned.  And  within  a month, 
he  who  has  been  described  as  “ the  first  Englishman 
of  his  time,”  had  passed  from  the  troubled  arena  of 
politics. 

His  monument  in  the  Abbey  shows  him  to  us  as  he 


Hoare. 


Walker  &■  Cockerell. 


William  Pitt 

First  Earl  of  Chatham. 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  29 7 


must  often  Lave  looked  when,  wearing  his  Parliamentary- 
robes,  he  addressed  the  House  in  that  clear,  sweet 
voice  of  his,  which  he  could  use  with  such  wonderful 
effect,  and  the  sculptor  has  well  caught  the  expression 
of  his  fearless  strength.  Near  him  stand  Prudence  and 
Fortitude ; below  is  Britannia,  Mistress  of  the  Seas ; 
and  the  inscription  tells  how,  under  his  administration, 
Great  Britain  was  exalted  to  a height  of  prosperity  and 
glory,  unknown  in  any  former  age. 

His  second  son,  William,  was  born  in  1759,  the  year 
that  was  perhaps  the  most  successful  in  his  father’s  life, 
and  as  he  was  too  delicate  to  go  to  school,  the  older 
man  personally  supervised  the  early  education  of  this 
his  favourite  child.  When  quite  small,  Chatham  began 
to  give  him  lessons  in  public  speaking,  making  him 
stand  on  a platform  to  recite  poetry  or  speeches,  and 
later  on  teaching  him  to  argue  their  points.  With  such 
a teacher  and  such  a ready  pupil,  it  is  not  surprising  to 
hear  of  excellent  progress  made. 

Little  Willy  Pitt,  as  he  was  called,  soon  showed  in 
which  direction  his  inclinations  lay.  “ I am  glad  I am 
not  the  eldest  son,”  he  remarked,  when  he  was  seven, 
“ as  I want  to  speak  in  the  House  of  Commons  like 
papa.” 

He  was  only  nineteen  when  his  father  died,  but  it  was 
he  who  had  helped  the  old  statesman  to  his  place  in 
the  House  of  Lords  on  the  last  day  of  his  life,  he  who 
assisted  to  carry  him  out,  and  he  who  stood  as  chief 
mourner  at  that  impressive  funeral  in  the  Abbey,  hi3 
elder  brother  being  abroad.  The  thought  of  any  life 


2q8  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

bufc  a political  and  a public  one,  never  entered  his  mind, 
and  two  years  later  he  became  a member  of  Parliament. 
The  first  step  up  the  ladder  was  taken.  Already  a trained 
speaker,  his  gifts  were  at  once  recognised  by  the  House. 
Members  of  both  parties  generously  praised  him,  and 
prophesied  that  his  would  be  a great  career.  “ I doubt 
not,”  said  honest  William  Wilberforce,  “ but  that  I shall 
one  day  see  him  the  first  man  in  the  country.”  His 
likeness  to  his  father  was  remarkable.  “ Language, 
gesture,  and  manner  were  all  the  same,”  wrote  his 
delighted  tutor.  “ All  the  old  members  recognised  him 
instantly,  and  most  of  the  young  ones  said  this  was 
the  very  man  they  had  so  often  heard  described.” 

But  it  was  not  on  his  father’s  merits  that  William 
Pitt  sprang  into  immediate  fame ; his  own  personality 
was  his  passport. 

Thirteen  years  before,  another  young  man  had  entered 
Parliament,  Charles  James  Fox,  the  brilliant,  excite- 
ment-loving son  of  Lord  Holland.  After  Eton  and 
Oxford  he  had  been  sent  abroad  to  complete  his  educa- 
tion, but  so  great  were  his  follies  and  extravagances, 
that  his  father  had  to  firmly  summon  him  home.  This 
mandate,  we  are  told,  “ he  obeyed  with  great  reluctance,” 
and  he  seems  to  have  gone  back  with  an  extensive 
wardrobe  of  clothes  in  the  latest  and  most  costly 
fashions,  leaving  behind  him  enormous  debts  in  every 
town  he  had  visited. 

Lord  Holland,  who  flattered  himself  that  he  had 
studied  the  world  and  human  nature  with  great  atten- 
tion and  success,  decided  that  a seat  in  the  House  of 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  299 


Commons  would  best  steady  this  irrepressible  young  man, 
and  provide  him  with  occupation  and  ambition,  so,  though 
he  was  only  nineteen,  and  therefore  legally  not  entitled 
to  become  a member,  he  was  duly  elected,  the  Speaker, 
by  wilful  or  accidental  oversight,  offering  no  opposi- 
tion. He  too  from  the  first  delighted  the  House  as  a 
speaker,  for  he  was  fresh,  forcible,  and  graceful,  with 
a great  personal  charm  of  manner  and  an  entire  absence 
of  conceit,  and  no  one  gave  a more  cordial  welcome  to 
Pitt  than  he  did,  little  dreaming  in  how  short  a time 
this  young  man  would  be  his  lifelong  and  his  success- 
ful rival.  Rockingham,  who  had  succeeded  North  as 
Prime  Minister,  died  suddenly  in  1782,  and  from  every 
point  of  view  Fox  appeared  to  be  the  man  who  ought 
to  have  succeeded  him.  But  the  King  cordially  disliked 
Fox,  and  sent  instead  for  Lord  Shelburne.  Fox,  ever 
impetuous  and  hasty,  refused  to  serve  under  him, 
and  Shelburne  turned  to  Pitt,  who  thus  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three  became  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and 
leader  of  the  House  of  Commons.  A year  later  Lord 
Shelburne  resigned,  and  the  Premiership  was  offered  to 
Pitt,  an  honour  greater  perhaps  than  any  honour  ever 
offered  to  a young  man  of  twenty-four.  He  declined 
it ; the  Duke  of  Portland  accepted  it ; and  Fox  became 
leader  in  the  House  of  Commons,  with  what  seemed 
to  be  a strong  coalition  Government  at  the  back  of  him. 
For  the  moment  the  Whigs  were  all-powerful,  and  against 
them  stood  Pitt,  who  refused  to  be  a member  of  any 
coalition,  with  a handful  of  men  who  had  belonged 
to  the  old  Chatham  party.  No  one  hated  the  present 


300  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


arrangement  more  than  the  King,  and  before  long  he 
saw  an  opportunity  of  crushing  it.  Fox,  chiefly  by  his 
own  magnetic  influence,  had  carried  a bill  concerning 
India  through  the  Commons,  but  the  Lords,  influenced 
by  the  King,  threw  it  out,  whereupon  he  dismissed  the 
Government,  and  persuaded  Pitt  to  accept  the  office  of 
Prime  Minister.  Never  before  had  such  a state  of 
things  prevailed.  The  Premier  was  a youth  of  twenty- 
four,  with  a majority  of  two  to  one  against  him  in  the 
House  of  Commons ! Whatever  he  brought  forward 
was  defeated.  Fox  used  all  his  eloquence  against  him, 
and  over  and  over  again  he  was  put  in  an  impossible 
position.  Pitt,  Lord  Rosebery  has  told  us,  was  never 
young.  Certainly,  at  this  crisis,  his  patience,  his  caution, 
his  firmness,  and  his  cool  judgment  would  have  done 
credit  to  a statesman  of  half  a century’s  experience. 
He  did  not  make  a mistake,  and  gradually  he  won 
the  country  to  his  side.  Before  many  months  were  over, 
Parliament  was  dissolved ; an  election  had  taken  place ; 
and  Pitt  came  back  into  power  with  a large  majority. 
For  seventeen  years  he  remained  in  office.  Nothing 
could  have  been  greater  than  the  contrast  between 
him  and  his  strenuous  opponent  Fox,  who  was  the  most 
impulsive,  genial,  and  lovable  of  men  ; extravagant  in 
every  direction,  in  his  likes,  his  hates,  and  his  sympa- 
thies ; easily  stirred  and  able  to  pour  forth  a torrent  of 
passionate  eloquence ; living  always  in  the  excitement 
and  impulses  of  the  moment,  with  never  a thought  for  the 
morrow.  Pitt,  on  the  contrary,  was  cool  and  thoughtful. 
He  stood,  as  it  were,  aloof  from  all  the  world,  though 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  COPtNEU  301 


on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  unbent,  he  was  full  of 
charm.  “ Smiles  were  not  natural  to  him,”  said  a con- 
temporary. “ He  is,”  said  Wilberforce,  who  unfeignedly 
admired  him,  even  though  he  could  not  always  follow 
him,  “ one  of  the  most  public-spirited  and  upright  men 
I ever  knew.”  And  he  was  called  upon  to  guide  the 
ship  of  State  through  troubled  waters.  It  was  his 
task  to  raise  the  money  in  payment  of  the  American 
war  bill,  for  a debt  of  about  twenty  millions  stared 
him  in  the  face.  Then  he  had  to  face  more  than 
the  usual  amount  of  difficulty  with  Ireland,  where  the 
celebrated  Dublin  Parliament  which  Henry  Grattan,  its 
brilliant  leader,  had  forced  Fox  to  agree  to,  proved  itself 
so  unable  to  cope  with  the  task  undertaken,  that  riots 
and  disturbances  broke  out  in  every  quarter.  Pitt 
believed  that  only  one  solution  was  possible,  namely, 
that  instead  of  a separate  Parliament  at  Dublin,  the 
Irish  members  with  the  Scotch  should  sit  at  West- 
minster, and  in  the  year  1799  he  brought  in  the  Act 
of  Union,  which  was  carried  during  the  next  session, 
in  spite  of  a strong  speech  against  it  by  Grattan,  who 
was  dragged  from  his  sick-room  for  the  occasion.  Pitt 
had  also  to  contend  with  a restless  wave  which  swept 
over  England,  the  result  of  the  French  Revolution.  But 
though  the  young  minister  was  always  ready  for  reform, 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  violent  changes  or 
with  revolution,  neither  was  he  afraid  to  bring  in  such 
measures  as  seemed  likely  to  repress  the  revolutionary 
spirits  in  England.  The  French  leaders,  not  content 
with  having  executed  their  king  and  queen,  and  having 


302  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


waged  war  on  Austria,  when  that  country  moved  to 
rescue  the  luckless  Austrian  princess,  now  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette,  went  to  the  further  length  of  declaring  that 
every  country  not  agreeing  with  the  doctrines  of  the 
Revolution  was  to  be  regarded  as  an  enemy,  and 
was  to  be  forced  into  war.  For  some  while  Pitt 
managed  to  hold  the  English  people  from  plunging 
into  the  conflict.  He  was  altogether  a peace  minister. 
But  public  opinion  was  too  strong  for  him ; the  old 
hatred  of  France  was  there,  and  the  events  of  the  last 
few  years  had  fanned  it  into  life.  Pitt  had  to  bow  to 
the  will  of  the  nation,  though  it  was  the  French  who 
finally  declared  war  in  1793  by  an  attack  on  Holland, 
after  which  England  could  no  longer  stand  aloof,  though 
Fox,  in  his  hot-headed  way,  declared  that  in  his  opinion 
we  had  no  right  to  demand  the  withdrawal  of  French 
troops  from  the  Netherlands.  From  that  time  until  the 
day  of  victory  at  Waterloo  in  1815,  the  fight  between 
England  and  France  continued  with  more  or  less  intensity. 

And  the  final  issue  was  due  in  no  small  degree  to  Pitt, 
who,  though  he  hated  the  war,  had  during  his  long 
ministry  of  peace  freely  spent  millions  of  pounds  on 
the  British  navy,  recognising  that  so  long  as  England 
was  mistress  of  the  seas  she  was  safe.  From  the 
moment,  too,  that  war  was  declared,  he  threw  him- 
self heart  and  soul  into  every  measure  for  carrying  it 
through  successfully;  never  for  a moment  did  he  show  a 
weak  front,  or  fail  to  be  the  leader  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  When  Napoleon,  elated  by  his  series  of  triumphs 
on  the  Continent,  prepared  to  invade  England,  it  was 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  303 


Pitt  who  gave  an  impetus  to  the  volunteer  movement 
by  himself  raising  a force  of  3000  men,  and  placing 
himself  at  their  head.  “ His  spirit  will  lead  him  to  be 
foremost  in  the  battle,  and  I am  uneasy  at  it,”  said 
Wilberforce ; “ yet  it  is  his  proper  post,  and  I can  say 
nothing  against  it.”  In  an  incredibly  short  time  a 
volunteer  force  of  300,000  was  enrolled,  “their  good 
sense  and  firmness  supplying  their  want  of  experience.” 
But  though  his  spirit  was  as  strong  as  ever,  his  delicate 
frame  was  giving  way  under  the  high  pressure  at  which 
he  had  lived.  True  to  his  promise  to  Wilberforce,  he 
had  pushed  forward  the  Abolition  of  Slavery  Bill,  and 
he  did  not  relax  an  effort  as  regards  his  war  policy, 
though  on  the  Continent  Napoleon  was  still  all  victori- 
ous. Wellesley,  a young  soldier,  had  just  come  back 
from  India  with  a good  reputation,  and  Pitt,  then  a 
dying  man,  sent  for  him.  He  knew  that  what  England 
wanted  now  was  a great  soldier  to  lead  her  armies ; 
her  navy  was  safe  under  such  commanders  as  St. 
Vincent,  Collingwood,  and  Nelson.  For  hours  he  talked 
to  Wellesley,  only  ceasing  when  he  fainted  from 
exhaustion.  “ The  greatest  minister  that  has  ever 
ruled  England,”  was  the  verdict  of  the  soldier  states- 
man. Then  came  the  news  of  the  victory  at  Trafalgar, 
saddened  only  by  the  death  of  the  heroic  Nelson.  But 
Pitt  was  drifting  far  away  from  all  these  things.  His 
mind  wandered  as  his  life  flickered  out ; only  just  at 
the  end  there  was  a rally.  “ Oh  my  country ! ” he 
cried  ; “ how  I leave  my  country  ! ” That  was  his  last 
thought  and  his  last  speech. 


3o4  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


When  the  usual  proposal  was  brought  forward  that 
he  should  be  buried  at  Westminster  at  the  expense  of 
Parliament,  and  that  a monument  should  be  erected,  Fox 
characteristically  felt  bound  to  oppose  it.  “ He  could 
not  honestly,”  he  said,  “ call  a man  an  excellent  states- 
man who  had  consistently  supported  so  bad  a system.” 
But  when  it  was  further  suggested  that  Parliament 
should  pay  the  debts  he  had  left  and  provide  for  his 
nearest  relations,  no  one  agreed  so  cordially  or  so  readily 
as  Fox.  Wrong-headed  he  often  was ; wrong-hearted 
never. 

Into  the  same  grave  as  his  father  William  Pitt  was 
laid  in  the  presence  of  all  the  distinguished  people  of  the 
day,  his  pall-bearers  being  six  men  each  of  whom  had 
been,  or  was  to  be,  a Prime  Minister  of  England.  “ The 
figure  of  the  first  William  Pitt,”  wrote  Wilberforce, 
“ seemed  to  be  looking  down  with  consternation  into  the 
grave  of  his  favourite  son,  the  last  perpetuator  of  the 
name  he  had  ennobled.  It  was  an  affecting  ceremony.” 

Pitt  was  still  a young  man,  only  forty-soven,  yet 
into  those  years  he  had  crowded  a glorious  life,  and 
it  was  with  truth  that  the  herald  proclaimed  over  his 
grave,  “ He  lived  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  country.” 

Eight  months  later,  Fox,  who  did  not  live  to  enjoy 
the  power  his  rival’s  death  had  placed  within  his  reach, 
was  buried  close  to  him  in  the  Abbey.  During  his 
short  spell  of  office,  he  had  carried  Wilberforce’s  Slave 
Bill,  and  had  frequently  said  he  could  retire  happily 
when  once  that  bill  was  made  safe.  He  disdainfully 
refused  a Peerage.  “ I will  not  close  my  politics 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  305 


in  that  foolish  way,”  was  his  remark.  Near  together 
too,  though  not  in  the  Statesmen’s  Corner,  are  the 
monuments  of  these  two  whose  lives  were  throughout 
so  interwoven.  Pitt  towers  in  lonely  state  over  the 
west  door,  standing  there  as  if  he  were  about  to  pour 
forth  his  magnificent  eloquence  on  the  statues  below 
and  charm  them  back  into  life  for  one  brief  moment. 
Fox  lies  surrounded  by  weeping  figures,  one  of  whom 
represents  the  negro  whose  cause  he  had  so  powerfully 
championed.  And  so  the  great  Mother  Church  gathers 
them  both  to  herself,  claiming  each  as  a noble  son  of 
England. 

Henry  Grattan,  the  Irishman,  is  buried  close  to  Fox, 
his  friend  and  hero.  He  had  often  told  his  followers 
that  he  wished  to  lie  in  a quiet  churchyard  of  his 
loved  Ireland,  but  they  had  other  ideas.  “Well  then,” 
he  said  resignedly,  “ Westminster  Abbey  ! ” His 
funeral  had  a very  distinctive  touch,  for  it  was 
attended  by  hundreds  of  Irish  children  from  various 
charitable  institutions,  all  of  whom  wore  dresses  of 
bright  green. 

Next  to  the  imposing  monument  of  Chatham  is  a 
statue  to  Lord  Palmerston,  that  most  English  of  states- 
men. He  went  into  political  life  more  from  a sense  of 
duty  than  from  any  particular  liking  for  it,  or  from  any 
feelings  of  ambition.  But  into  every  office  that  he  held 
he  carried  with  him  a sturdy  independence,  a dogged 
tenacity  of  purpose,  a fund  of  common  sense,  and  a very 
clear  idea  of  what  he  meant  to  attain.  Add  to  this  that 
he  was  the  essence  of  good-nature,  the  most  genial  of 

U 


306  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


friends,  simple  and  straight,  manly  and  cheery,  and  we 
have  some  idea  of  the  man  whom  the  nation  insisted  on 
having  for  Prime  Minister,  when  he  was  over  seventy  years 
of  age,  at  a critical  moment  when  it  was  felt  that  only  a 
strong,  fearless,  popular  statesman  could  guide  the  ship 
out  of  the  storm. 

And  then,  in  contrast  to  the  kindly,  contented  Palmer- 
ston, comes  the  tomb  of  Lord  Castlereagh,  a statesman  as 
much  out  of  touch  with  the  people  as  “ Pam  ” was  their 
hero.  He  was  Secretary  of  State  for  War  in  those  days 
when  the  struggle  with  France  was  beginning,  and  be- 
cause at  first  things  went  badly  he  was  made  the 
scapegoat.  It  was  he  who  planned  that  combination  of 
forces  which  at  last  broke  down  the  French  resistance, 
but  that  was  not  realised  till  long  afterwards ; in  those 
early  days  his  policy  was  not  successful,  so  it  was  un- 
popular. He  stood  aloof  from  all  men ; he  was  cold, 
indifferent,  wanting  in  tact,  with  no  gifts  as  a speaker, 
and  yet,  looking  back  now  on  his  work,  it  is  easy  to 
see  how  well  he  faced  a period  of  unexampled  difficulty. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  invariably  misunderstood,  and 
therefore  unjustly  disliked,  so  that  at  last  his  mind  gave 
way  under  the  storm  of  hatred  and  abuse  levelled  against 
him,  and,  in  a dark  moment,  he  put  an  end  to  his  life. 
Even  at  his  funeral  in  the  Abbey,  the  crowds  could  not 
forget  their  dislike  of  him,  and  shouted  exultantly  as 
the  coffin  was  carried  inside  the  doors.  But  the  Abbey 
gave  him  a welcome  and  a resting-place. 

On  the  opposite  side  stand  the  statues  of  the  three 
Cannings  : George  Canning,  the  statesman ; his  youngest 


PITT  AND  THE  STATESMEN’S  CORNER  307 


son,  Lord  Canning,  first  Viceroy  of  India ; and  their 
cousin,  Lord  Stratford  de  Radcliffe,  “ the  wise  old  man  of 
the  East,”  who  was  our  ambassador  at  Constantinople 
during  those  years  which  led  up  to  the  Crimean  War, 
and  whose  influence,  supported  by  the  Government  at 
home  and  France,  made  it  possible  for  Turkey  to  hold 
Russia  at  bay.  The  verse  on  the  statue : 

“ Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand  among  our  best 
And  noblest,  now  thy  long  day’s  work  hath  ceased ; 

Here  silent,  in  our  Minster  of  the  West, 

Who  wert  the  voice  of  England  in  the  East,” 

is  the  work  of  Tennyson,  who  has  only  written  one 
other  epitaph  in  the  Abbey.  Close  together  are  the 
monuments  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  Benjamin  Disraeli, 
Earl  of  Beaconsfield.  Peel  was  the  Minister  who,  in 
the  face  of  violent  opposition,  caused  the  tax  on  imported 
corn  to  be  repealed,  thereby  making  bread  cheaper ; and 
Disraeli,  who  first  won  his  reputation  by  the  persistent 
manner  in  which  he  fought  this  policy  of  Peel’s, 
doggedly  forged  his  way  to  the  front  against  much 
prejudice,  until  he,  though  not  an  Englishman  by  race, 
held  the  proud  position  of  being  the  loved  and  trusted 
Prime  Minister  of  Queen  Victoria.  The  statue  of 
Beaconsfield — for  by  his  own  desire  he  was  buried  next 
to  his  wife  in  the  country  churchyard  at  Hughenden — 
casts  its  shadow  over  the  grave  of  William  Ewart 
Gladstone,  whose  family  only  consented  to  his  being 
laid  there  on  the  condition  that  Mrs.  Gladstone  should 
eventually  rest  beside  him,  even  as  Lady  Palmerston 


308  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


lay  by  her  husband’s  side.  The  coffin  which  contained 
this  old  statesman,  who  was  better  loved  and  better 
hated  perhaps  than  any  public  man  of  our  genera- 
tion, was  placed  for  some  time  in  Westminster  Hall,  and 
nearly  a quarter  of  a million  people  passed  through  to 
pay  their  last  token  of  respect.  The  time  has  not  yet 
come  when  his  place  in  English  history  as  a statesman 
can  be  fairly  judged,  but  friend  and  foe  alike  can  bear  tri- 
bute to  his  brilliant  intellect;  his  talents  as  a financier; 
his  excellent  learning ; his  wonderful  personality ; his 
rich  eloquence ; his  generous  sympathies ; his  stainless 
private  life  ; and  to  those  other  qualities  which  his  politi- 
cal opponent  Lord  Salisbury  so  finely  described  as  mak- 
ing him  “ a great  Christian.”  “ God  bless  you,  and  this 
place,  and  the  land  you  love,”  had  been  his  last  public 
utterance,  and  in  the  spirit  of  that  message  we  leave 
him,  who  in  life  stirred  up  such  sharp  dissensions, 
sleeping  peacefully  in  the  Abbey. 


CHAPTER  XX 


INDIAN  STATESMEN  AND  SOLDIERS  : LAWRENCE 
AND  THE  HEROES  OF  THE  MUTINY 

The  Indian  Mutiny,  which  produced  “ such  a breed  of 
warlike  men,”  the  equals  of  whom  have  rarely,  if  ever, 
been  found  awaiting  their  country’s  need  of  them,  is 
especially  commemorated  in  the  Abbey,  which  holds  the 
graves  of  Lord  Lawrence ; Colin  Campbell,  Lord  Clyde ; 
and  Sir  James  Outram.  Only  a monument  does  honour 
to  Warren  Hastings,  whose  name  is  so  indissolubly 
linked  with  Westminster  and  with  India,  for  it  was  at 
Westminster  School  that  he  was  educated,  the  favourite 
pupil  of  the  head-master  Dr.  Nichols,  who  found  him 
“ a hard  student,  bold,  full  of  fire,  ambitious  in  no 
ordinary  degree ; ” and  it  was  to  India  that  he  went, 
when  eighteen,  into  the  service  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany. To  the  building  up  of  the  British  Empire  in 
India  he  gave  his  life,  working  with  unfaltering  courage 
under  a thousand  difficulties,  sometimes  no  doubt  mak- 
ing errors  of  judgment,  more  often  the  victim  of  other 
men’s  intrigues  and  treachery,  but  always  the  dauntless, 
enthusiastic  servant  of  the  State.  And  his  reward  was 
disgrace,  confiscation,  and  impeachment.  He  was  used 
by  Ministers  at  home  as  a cat’s-paw  in  the  game  of 

3°9 


3io  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


politics.  Burke  and  Fox  charged  him  in  Parliament 
with  cruelty,  extortion,  and  corruption,  while  Sheridan’s 
brilliant  eloquence  so  dazzled  the  Commons  as  to  obscure 
all  their  calm  judgment,  and  they  impeached  Warren 
Hastings  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords  for  “ high 
crimes  and  misdemeanours.”  In  the  February  of  1788 
this  most  famous  of  trials  commenced  in  Westminster 
Hall,  and  it  took  Burke  two  days  to  get  through  his 
list  of  charges.  All  the  force  of  his  great  powers  as 
an  orator  was  brought  to  bear  against  the  accused,  who 
“ stood  there  small,  spare,  and  upright,  his  bearing  a 
mixture  of  deference  and  dignity,  his  soft  sad  eyes 
flashing  defiance  on  his  accusers  ; the  lines  of  his 
mouth  and  chin  firm,  his  face  very  pale  but  calm.” 
The  trial  lingered  on  and  on ; it  was  seven  years 
before  the  verdict  was  given,  a verdict  which  practi- 
cally cleared  Hastings,  and  proved  that,  if  on  occasions 
he  had  been  unnecessarily  ruthless  or  hard  in  his  rule, 
he  had  not  so  acted  from  any  selfish  or  unworthy 
motive,  but  because  he  believed  that  thereby  he  was 
best  serving  the  interests  both  of  England  and  of 
India.  Though  he  was  acquitted,  he  was  practically 
a ruined  man.  The  trial  had  cost  him  more  than 
£70,000,  and  he  was  not  rich,  neither  could  he  hope 
for  any  employment  under  Fox  or  Pitt.  The  East 
India  Company  voted  him  a pension  for  twenty-eight 
years,  but  refused  him  when  he  asked  that  it  might  be 
continued  during  the  lifetime  of  his  wife,  “ the  dearest 
object  of  all  his  concerns.”  And  so  he  died  a bitterly 
disappointed  man. 


Rr.  Hon.  Warren  Hastings. 


INDIAN  STATESMEN 


3i  i 

John  Lawrence  was  the  son  of  a soldier,  and  from 
boyhood  he  had  chosen  the  army  for  his  profession,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Three  of  his  brothers  had  already 
gone  to  India,  two  into  the  cavalry,  and  one  into  the 
artillery,  and  John  was  hoping  to  enter  the  service  of 
the  East  India  Company  in  the  same  way,  when  to  his 
disgust  he  was  offered  an  appointment,  not  in  their 
army,  but  in  the  Civil  Service.  There  could  be  no 
question  as  to  which  of  the  two  branches  offered  the 
better  opening  to  any  hard-working,  ambitious  young 
man,  but  John  would  hear  none  of  this.  “A  soldier  I 
was  born,  a soldier  I will  be,”  he  said  firmly.  And  he 
was  only  moved  in  his  resolution  by  the  simple,  sensible 
arguments  of  his  invalid  sister  Letitia,  to  whom  he  was 
entirely  devoted.  So  to  the  East  India  College  at 
Haileybury  he  went,  and  sailed  for  India  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  considered  by  his  elders  to  be  a reliable,  in- 
telligent lad,  but  nothing  more.  The  old  longing  for  a 
soldier’s  life  came  back  to  him  on  landing,  and  for  the 
first  few  weeks  he  was  so  entirely  miserable,  that,  as 
he  said  afterwards,  “ the  offer  of  £100  a year  would 
have  taken  me  straight  home  again.”  Then  he  firmly 
pulled  himself  together  and  resolved  that  there  should 
be  no  turning  back  now ; he  would  go  forward,  and  do 
the  work  which  came  to  him  with  all  his  might. 
Delhi  was  his  first  destination,  and  soon  he  found  him- 
self in  charge  of  a district,  so  good  a reputation  had  he 
made  for  being  both  self-reliant  and  cautious.  It  was  a 
turbulent,  unsettled  piece  of  country  that  he  was  given 
to  bring  into  order,  but  his  firmness,  justice,  and  conscien- 


312  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


tious  hard  work  accomplished  wonders,  and  prepared 
him  for  greater  things.  Without  a single  soldier  he 
kept  perfect  order  among  his  people  through  the  great 
drought,  which  filled  his  district  with  starving  men  and 
with  bands  of  robbers,  but  at  last  his  health  gave  way 
under  the  strain  of  eleven  years’  work,  and  he  came 
home  to  England  on  sick  leave.  Two  years  later  he 
returned  to  his  post,  now  a married  man,  and  was  soon 
brought  into  close  contact  with  that  sturdy  soldier,  Sir 
Henry  Hardinge,  who  was  in  command  of  the  fierce 
campaign  then  being  waged  against  the  Sikhs.  Har- 
dinge entirely  depended  on  being  able  to  get  sufficient 
supplies,  guns,  and  ammunition  from  the  base  at  Delhi, 
and  it  was  to  the  civilian  magistrate  there,  John 
Lawrence,  that  he  appealed  for  help.  Splendidly  that 
help  was  given.  Lawrence  organised  a system  of  carts, 
each  to  be  driven  by  his  owner ; and  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  a long  train  of  guns,  ammunition,  and  food 
of  all  sorts,  reached  the  camp,  as  much  to  the  delight 
as  to  the  astonishment  of  the  General.  A few  days 
after  the  arrival  of  these  welcome  supplies,  the  battle 
which  ended  the  campaign  was  fought  and  won.  Har- 
dinge did  not  forget  the  man  who  had  made  this  victory 
possible,  and  gave  him  for  reward  a most  responsible 
piece  of  work,  the  charge  of  the  newly  won  Sikh 
province  of  Jalandhar. 

A second  Sikh  war,  which  ended  in  the  complete  sub- 
mission of  the  Sikh  army,  gave  the  whole  province  of 
the  Punjab  into  the  hands  of  the  Viceroy. 

“ What  shall  we  do  with  it  ? ” he  asked  of  Lawrence. 


INDIAN  STATESMEN 


3i3 


“ Annex  it  at  once,”  was  the  answer ; and  when  Lord 
Dalhousie  pointed  out  the  difficulties,  Lawrence,  who  had 
known  and  realised  them  all,  met  every  objection  with 
the  words : “ Action,  action,  action  ! ” 

So  the  Punjab  was  annexed,  and  it  was  decided  to 
govern  it  by  a Board,  which  included  Henry  Law- 
rence and  John  Lawrence.  Frankly,  let  us  admit  at 
once  that  the  arrangement  was  not  a happy  one.  Both 
brothers  were  men  of  strong  character  and  great  ability, 
but  they  saw  things  from  very  different  points  of  view. 
Henry  was  enthusiastic,  imaginative,  and  easily  moved ; 
John  was  entirely  practical  and  clear-headed.  Each 
loved  and  respected  the  other,  but  neither  would  give 
way  on  what  seemed  to  each  vital  questions  of  impor- 
tance. Finally,  both  sent  in  their  resignations,  and 
Lord  Dalhousie,  wisely  recognising  that  John  Law- 
rence was  specially  fitted  for  the  special  work  re- 
quired at  the  moment  in  the  Punjab,  made  him 
the  Chief  Commissioner,  and  moved  Henry  to  another 
field.  It  was  a great  province  to  reduce  to  law 
and  order,  even  when  it  was  divided  into  seven  dis- 
tricts, ruled  over  by  picked  men.  But  Lawrence  was 
a born  organiser.  Not  only  could  he  work  himself  in- 
defatigably,  but  he  knew  how  to  choose  other  men  for 
the  posts  that  had  to  be  filled,  and  having  chosen  them, 
he  trusted  them  and  supported  them  loyally.  He  had 
only  to  recognise  “ grit,”  or  “ metal,”  in  a subordinate, 
and  there  was  nothing  he  would  not  do  to  help  him  on. 
“ Human  nature  is  human  nature,”  he  would  say,  and 
“ A strong  horse  if  held  with  a tight  hand  will  do  more 


3i4  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


than  a weak  horse  to  whom  you  may  give  his  head.”  So 
he  managed  to  keep  his  brilliant  colleagues  all  in  one 
team ; he  smoothed  over  their  disagreements,  he  dealt 
with  them  all  quite  frankly,  criticising  where  he  held 
it  needful,  praising  generously  whenever  it  was  possible, 
and  thus  he  gathered  around  him  that  band  of  men,  in- 
cluding Nicholson,  Chamberlain,  and  Edwardes,  who  came 
to  the  fore  so  vigorously  a little  later  in  the  hour  of 
the  crisis.  But  Lawrence  was  to  do  still  greater  things 
in  the  near  future. 

A year  later  saw  the  outbreak  of  the  Mutiny,  which 
came  as  a thunderbolt  to  the  British  G-overnment  in 
India.  The  first  rising,  terrible  in  its  suddenness,  was 
at  Meerut,  where  a maddened  crowd  of  sepoys,  thirst- 
ing for  the  blood  of  all  Europeans,  seized  the  arms 
and  ammunition,  released  their  prisoners,  murdered 
whoever  resisted  them,  and  then  made  for  Delhi,  at 
which  place  all  the  rebels  from  the  country  round  were 
assembling.  Within  Delhi,  the  native  regiments  joined 
the  mutineers  ; Europeans  were  ruthlessly  massacred,  and 
though  the  tiny  garrison  made  a magnificent  defence,  ex- 
pecting every  hour  to  be  relieved  by  a strong  British  force, 
they  at  last  had  to  realise  that  resistance  was  useless  and 
that  each  one  must  escape  for  his  life  as  best  he  could. 

To  Lawrence,  just  starting  for  his  holiday,  came  the 
well-known  message  from  Delhi,  “The  sepoys  have 
come  in  from  Meerut,  and  are  burning  everything.  We 
must  shut  up,”  followed  by  a second  telegram  which 
told  that  Delhi  was  in  the  hands  of  the  rebels. 
Strange  to  say  nothing  was  being  done  from  Meerut, 


INMAN  STATESMEN  315 

where  there  was  a fairly  large  force  of  British  troops,  to 
avenge  the  murderous  outbreak. 

John  Lawrence,  however,  was  a man  of  action,  and  his 
younger  colleagues  were  not  a whit  less  determined.  At 
all  costs  Delhi  must  be  regained — that  was  the  first  move 
unanimously  agreed  on  ; but  every  hour’s  delay  meant 
danger,  for  each  day  brought  recruits  to  the  rebels,  and 
the  disarming  of  the  doubtful  native  troops  must  be  car- 
ried out  at  once  if  it  were  not  to  be  too  late.  Lawrence 
had  a twofold  task.  He  must  make  safe  and  hold  secure 
for  England  the  Punjab,  that  vast  inflammable  province 
containing  more  than  thirty  thousand  sepoys,  for  which 
work  he  knew  he  could  rely  on  Chamberlain,  Nicholson, 
and  Edwardes ; but  more  than  this,  he  must  put  forth 
every  power  to  assist  in  the  retaking  of  Delhi.  When 
at  last  an  army  of  about  three  thousand  men  took  up 
their  stand  on  a ridge  outside  Delhi,  they  knew  that 
within  the  walls  of  the  city  at  least  a hundred  thousand 
foes  awaited  them,  with  numbers  of  guns  and  an  un- 
limited supply  of  ammunition.  Overwhelming  indeed 
were  the  odds  against  them.  But  one  fact  gave  them 
confidence.  Behind  them  lay  the  road  leading  to  the 
Punjab  and  to  the  man  whom  they  knew  would  send 
along  it,  to  their  help,  his  best  officers,  his  best  troops, 
ample  supplies  and  ammunition,  who  would  never  cease 
watching,  working,  and  urging  until  once  more  the 
British  flag  waved  over  Delhi. 

For  twelve  weary  weeks  the  struggle  waged,  and 
Lawrence  strained  every  nerve.  The  position  in  the 
Punjab  was  highly  critical ; only  the  ceaseless  vigour 


3 1 6 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


of  its  Chief  Commissioner,  and  his  strong,  fearless  policy, 
held  in  check  the  rebellion  all  ready  to  break  out.  Had 
the  Punjab  failed,  nothing  but  disaster  could  have  over- 
taken the  Delhi  Field  Force.  But  John  Lawrence  never 
doubted,  never  despaired,  even  when  there  reached  him 
the  appalling  news  of  the  Cawnpore  massacre,  followed 
by  the  tidings  from  beleaguered  Lucknow,  where  Henry 
Lawrence  had  fallen  at  his  post  with  the  dying  request 
that  on  his  tomb  might  be  recorded  the  words  : “ He  tried 
to  do  his  duty.” 

At  last  the  tide  turned.  Delhi  was  saved,  and  though 
all  was  not  yet  won,  Lawrence  knew  that  the  crisis 
was  over.  But  that  moment  was  clouded,  for  the  man 
who,  above  all  others,  had  brought  about  the  capture  of 
Delhi,  was  no  more.  John  Nicholson  had  fallen  in  the 
proudest  hour  of  his  life,  and  when  the  news  came  to 
Lawrence  he  completely  broke  down. 

“ He  was  a glorious  soldier,”  he  said.  “ He  seems  to 
have  been  specially  raised  up  for  this  juncture,  and  so 
long  as  British  rule  shall  endure  in  India  his  fame 
shall  never  perish ; without  him,  Delhi  could  not  have 
fallen.” 

It  was  a generous  tribute  and  a just  one.  But  we 
must  never  forget  that  behind  John  Nicholson  was  John 
Lawrence. 

“Not  a bayonet  or  a rupee  has  reached  Delhi  from 
Calcutta  or  England,”  wrote  Edwardes.  “ It  has  been 
recovered  by  Lawrence  and  his  resources.  Honour, 
all  honour  to  Coachman  John,  and  honour,  too,  to 
the  team  that  pulled  the  coach.  He  alone  was  at 


INDIAN  STATESMEN  317 

the  helm,  and  bore  all  the  responsibility  on  his  own 
shoulders  ” ! 

The  district  of  which  Delhi  was  the  capital  was  at 
once  handed  over  to  the  Punjab  Government,  and 
Lawrence  hurried  thither  in  a mail-cart,  that  law  and 
order  might  be  restored  without  delay.  His  policy 
was  just  what  might  have  been  expected  of  him — a 
generous  combination  of  strength,  mercy,  and  justice ; 
and  within  six  months  he  was  able  to  report  that  “ per- 
fect order  reigned  throughout  the  Delhi  territory.” 

It  was  just  at  this  juncture  that  Colin  Campbell 
arrived  in  India  as  Commauder-in-Chief. 

“ When  will  you  be  ready  to  start  ? ” Lord  Palmer- 
ston had  asked  him  in  offering  the  command. 

“ To-morrow  ! ” said  the  soldier  promptly.  And  on 
the  morrow  he  started. 

He  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  Crimea.  There 
he  had  held  the  command  of  the  Highland  Brigade,  a 
post  of  all  others  for  which  he  was  fitted.  A Highlander 
himself,  he  perfectly  understood  how  to  handle  the  men 
of  his  own  race,  and  the  advance  on  the  Alma  was 
splendidly  made  by  his  troops,  who  exhibited  such 
rare  courage  combined  with  perfect  coolness  that  when 
Lord  Kaglan  rode  up  to  compliment  their  commander, 
“ his  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  his  countenance  quivered.” 
“ The  army  is  watching  you,  make  me  proud  of  the 
Highland  Brigade,”  Campbell  said  to  his  men  on  the 
day  of  Balaclava.  “ Remember,”  he  added,  “ there  is 
no  retreat  from  here ! You  die  where  you  stand.” 

“ Aye,  aye,  Sir  Colin  ; we’ll  do  that ! ” was  the  answer. 


3 1 8 THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Rarely  has  a more  touching  farewell  order  been  issued 
than  that  from  Campbell  to  his  men,  when  at  the  end  of 
the  campaign  he  was  about  to  return  to  England.  Part 
of  it  ran  thus  : — 

“ A long  farewell ! I am  now  old,  and  shall  not  be 
called  to  serve  any  more ; and  nothing  will  remain  to  me 
but  the  memory  of  my  campaigns,  and  the  memory  too 
of  the  enduring,  hardy,  generous  soldiers  with  whom  I 
have  been  associated.  . . . When  you  go  home  you  will 
tell  the  story  of  your  immortal  advance  up  the  heights 
of  Alma,  and  you  may  speak  of  the  old  brigadier  who 
led  you  and  who  loved  you  so  well.  . . . And  the 
bagpipes  will  never  sound  near  me  without  carrying  me 
back  to  those  bright  days  when  I was  at  your  head  and 
wore  the  bonnet  you  gained  for  me,  and  the  honourable 
decorations  on  my  breast,  many  of  which  I owe  to  your 
conduct.  Brave  soldiers,  kind  comrades,  farewell ! ” 

But  the  old  soldier  had  not  done  yet,  and  he  promptly 
left  England  for  India,  where  he  arrived  at  the  darkest 
hour,  before  the  fall  of  Delhi,  and  when  Havelock 
had  been  foiled  in  his  brave  attempt  to  relieve  Luck- 
now. 

Sir  Colin  and  John  Lawrence  were  old  friends,  and 
the  Commander-in-Chief  at  once  wrote : “ It  will  be  a 
matter  of  real  gratification  to  me  if  we  exchange  our 
plans  and  ideas  from  time  to  time.  ...  I am  thankful 
you  were  in  the  Punjab  to  face  the  storm.” 

The  chief  concentrated  all  his  energy  on  bringing  order 
and  organisation  out  of  chaos  at  Calcutta,  so  that  efficient 
reinforcements,  properly  equipped,  might  be  speedily  got 


INDIAN  STATESMEN 


3i9 


together,  and  meanwhile  Outram  went  to  the  assistance  of 
Havelock.  “ Outram  is  a fine  soldier  and  a fine  man,” 
Lawrence  had  written  of  him  affectionately,  and  this 
“ Bayard  of  India,  who  had  served  that  country  for  forty 
years  in  war  and  council,”  as  it  is  recorded  in  the  Abbey, 
showed  himself  full  worthy  of  the  highest  praises  that 
could  be  bestowed  on  him.  When  he  reached  Cawnpore 
with  reinforcements  which  would  make  possible  the  relief 
of  Lucknow,  he  refused,  though  the  senior  officer,  to  take 
the  command.  Havelock  had  borne  the  heat  and  burden 
of  the  day,  Havelock  must  be  the  hero  when  the  hour 
of  victory  was  at  hand.  “ I cheerfully  waive  my  rank 
and  accompany  the  force  to  Lucknow,  tendering  my 
services  to  Brigadier-General  Havelock  as  a volunteer,” 
he  said,  with  a fine  chivalry  which  was  character- 
istic of  one  “ who  ever  esteemed  others  better  than 
himself,  who  was  valiant,  self-denying,  and  magnanimous 
— in  all  the  true  knight ! ” The  column  forced  its  way 
into  Lucknow,  but  even  so,  it  was  impossible  to  fully 
relieve  the  garrison.  Once  inside  the  walls  Outram  took 
over  the  command,  and  made  the  best  of  the  position 
directly  he  realised  that  for  the  present  he  could  only 
reinforce,  not  relieve.  But  Colin  Campbell  was  on  bis 
way  with  the  army  of  about  five  thousand  men  which  he 
had  collected  after  great  efforts.  A miscellaneous  force 
indeed  it  was : Lancers,  Sikhs,  Punjab  infantry,  the 
Queen’s,  and  the  93rd  Highlanders,  which  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  had  formed  up,  so  that  he  might  address 
them,  and  the  Highlanders  burst  into  cheers  at  the  sight 
of  their  beloved  General. 


320  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“ You  are  my  own  lads,”  he  said  to  them ; “ I rely  on 
you  to  do  yourselves  and  me  credit.” 

“ Aye,  aye ! Sir  Colin,”  answered  a voice  from  the 
ranks;  “ye  ken  us,  and  we  ken  you.  We’ll  bring  the 
women  and  bairnies  out  of  Lucknow,  or  we’ll  leave  our 
ain  banes  there  ! ” 

Magnificently  they  kept  their  word.  When  it  came 
to  the  last  assault,  Sikhs  and  Highlanders  positively 
raced  with  each  other  to  be  first  through  the  breach, 
and  seemed  impervious  alike  to  the  heavy  fire  poured 
on  them,  or  the  desperate  hand-to-hand  struggle.  Over 
five  hundred  killed  and  wounded  made  up  their  casualty 
list ; but  the  women  and  the  bairnies  were  saved.  And 
though  Sir  Colin  longed  to  make  a second  decisive  attack 
on  the  enemy,  he  held  back  with  great  self-control, 
deeming  it  his  first  duty  to  withdraw  all  the  sick  with 
the  women  and  children  in  safety  to  Alumbagh,  a feat 
difficult  enough  under  any  circumstances,  and  requiring 
all  his  available  troops.  Hardly  had  he  accomplished 
this  than  news  came  that  Cawnpore,  with  its  tiny  garri- 
son, was  once  more  surrounded  by  the  enemy,  and  was, 
so  the  message  said,  “ at  its  last  gasp.” 

“ How  dare  you  say  of  her  Majesty’s  troops  that  they 
are  at  their  last  gasp,”  thundered  the  chief.  And  forth- 
with made  for  the  entrenchments,  where  his  very  pre- 
sence saved  the  situation. 

All  this  while  John  Lawrence  had  not  relaxed  his 
efforts,  and  just  at  this  moment  he  sent  the  welcome 
intelligence  to  Sir  Colin  that  he  had  three  thousand 
cavalry  and  twelve  guns  waiting  for  him.  With  those 


West  Transept. 


INDIAN  STATESMEN 


321 


and  other  welcome  reinforcements  the  chief  was  able  to 
make  his  final  attack  on  Lucknow,  which  continued  fiercely 
during  nineteen  days,  but  which  ended  in  complete  victory 
for  the  British  troops,  though  they  were  but  a force  of 
30,000  against  120,000  of  the  rebels.  With  the  fall 
of  Lucknow  the  burning  flames  of  the  Mutiny  may  be 
said  to  have  been  extinguished ; what  remained  was  the 
smouldering  of  the  fire.  To  Sir  Colin  the  Queen  wrote 
an  autograph  letter  which  thrilled  him  with  pride,  part 
of  which  ran  thus : — 

“ The  Queen  has  had  many  proofs  already  of  Sir  Colin 
Campbell’s  devotion  to  his  Sovereign  and  his  country,  and 
he  has  now  greatly  added  to  the  debt  of  gratitude  which 
both  owe  him.  But  Sir  Colin  must  bear  one  reproof 
from  his  Queen,  and  this  is,  that  he  exposes  himself  too 
much.  His  life  is  most  precious,  and  she  entreats  that 
he  will  neither  put  himself  where  his  noble  spirit  would 
urge  him  to  be — foremost  in  danger — nor  fatigue  himself 
so  as  to  injure  his  health.” 

A little  later  her  Majesty  signified  her  intention  of 
conferring  on  him  a peerage. 

“We  dinna  ken  hoo  tae  address  ye,  Sir  Colin,  now 
that  the  Queen  has  made  ye  a lord ! ” said  one  of  the 
Highlanders  sadly. 

“Just  call  me  Sir  Colin,  John,  the  same  as  in  the  old 
times : I like  the  old  name  best,”  was  the  answer. 

Although  Lucknow  was  taken  in  the  March  of  1858, 
it  was  more  than  two  years  before  Sir  Colin  Campbell 
was  able  to  return  to  England,  having  finished  his  work  ; 
and  then  after  three  years  spent  at  home,  surrounded  by 

x 


322  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“ honour,  love,  and  troops  of  friends,”  the  old  warrior 
passed  away  from  the  battle-field  of  life. 

Lawrence,  now  a baronet,  and  greatly  worn  out  by 
the  heavy  strain  he  had  been  through,  had  reached 
England  in  1859,  where  he  found  the  British  public 
eager  to  shower  honours  on  one  whom  they  held  to  be 
the  saviour  of  India.  His  great  modesty  led  him  to 
shrink  from  it  all. 

“ If  I was  placed  in  a position  of  extreme  danger  and 
difficulty,”  he  declared,  “ I was  also  fortunate  in  having 
around  me  some  of  the  ablest  civil  and  military  officers 
in  India.  And  I hope  that  some  rewards  will  be  ex- 
tended to  those  who  so  nobly  shared  with  me  the  perils 
of  the  struggle,  and  by  whose  aid  my  efforts  were  crowned 
with  success.” 

He  settled  down  to  work  as  a member  of  the  Council 
of  India,  and  Lord  Derby,  then  at  the  India  Office,  was 
deeply  impressed  not  only  by  his  great  ability  but  by  his 
“ heroic  simplicity.”  “ Even  if  his  opportunity  had  never 
come,”  he  declared,  “ you  would  always  have  felt  that  you 
were  in  the  presence  of  a man  capable  of  accomplishing 
great  things,  and  capable  also  of  leaving  the  credit  of 
them  to  any  one  who  chose  to  take  it.” 

The  death  of  Outram  was  a great  sorrow  to  Lawrence, 
and  he  it  was  who  went  to  the  Dean  to  beg  that  his  old 
friend  should  be  buried  in  the  Abbey,  as  the  one  place 
worthy  of  him.  He  too  made  all  the  arrangements  for 
the  funeral,  and  it  was  at  his  suggestion  that  the  sergeants 
of  Outram’s  old  regiment  carried  their  beloved  leader  to 
his  grave. 


INDIAN  STATESMEN 


323 


Quite  unexpectedly  the  Government  called  on  him  to 
return  to  India  as  Viceroy,  and  though  he  would  far 
rather  have  remained  in  England,  he  felt  that  he  ought 
to  go.  To  him  the  call  of  duty  was  ever  the  one  call 
to  which  the  heart  of  every  true  man  must  unfailingly 
respond.  His  appointment  was  for  five  years,  and 
during  this  time  he  remained  at  his  post,  carrying  out 
the  policy  of  his  life,  by  which  he  desired  “ to  avoid 
complications,  to  consolidate  our  power  in  India,  to  give 
to  its  people  the  best  government  we  can,  to  organise 
our  administration  in  every  department  on  a system 
which  will  combine  economy  with  efficiency,  and  so  to 
make  our  Government  strong  and  respected.” 

“ I do  not  wish  to  shorten  my  term  of  office,  nor  do  I 
wish  to  prolong  it,”  he  said  in  answer  to  the  question 
as  to  what  his  feelings  were  now  that  he  was  about  to 
deliver  over  the  government  of  the  country. 

“ It  was  a proud  moment  for  me,”  he  added,  “ when  I 
walked  up  the  steps  of  this  house,  feeling  that  without 
political  interest  or  influence  I had  been  chosen  to  fill 
the  highest  office  under  the  Crown,  the  Viceroy  of  the 
Queen.  But  it  will  be  a happier  moment  for  me  when 
I walk  down  the  steps  with  the  feeling  that  I have  tried 
to  do  my  duty.” 

On  his  return  home  he  was  made  a peer,  and  for 
some  years  he  devoted  himself  untiringly  to  public  and 
philanthropic  work,  acting  as  Chairman  to  the  London 
School  Board  until  his  failing  eyesight  and  his  broken 
health  put  an  end  to  his  public  life.  “ It  is  overpower- 
ing to  see  him  thus  laid  low  and  worn  out,”  wrote  one 


324  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


who  saw  him  daily.  “ But  to  us  he  seems  grander  than 
ever  in  his  affliction,  and  we  realise  the  truth  that  * he 
who  ruleth  his  spirit  is  greater  than  he  who  taketh  a 
city.”’ 

Ten  years  after  he  had  left  India  the  end  came,  and 
Honest  John,  as  he  was  affectionately  called,  was  carried 
to  the  Abbey,  to  be  buried  there  with  all  the  honour 
that  was  his  due. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON 

It  is  impossible  to  wander  round  the  Poets’  Corner 
without  a longing  that  the  Abbey  could  claim  as  her 
own  all  the  great  singers  and  seers  who  have  made  the 
literature  of  our  country.  Chaucer  and  Spenser  indeed 
we  have,  with  other  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  and 
Stuart  periods ; but  many  familiar  names  are  missing 
altogether,  or  marked  only  by  a bust  or  slab.  John 
Philips,  Matthew  Prior,  John  Gay,  and  Thomas  Camp- 
bell— these  were  the  last  poets  buried  in  Westminster 
for  many  a long  day.  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Gold- 
smith, Coleridge,  Burns,  Keble,  Wordsworth,  Thackeray, 
Matthew  Arnold,  Kingsley,  Euskin,  have  monuments, 
and  so  we  have  their  names ; but  how  many  a one  is 
there  for  whom  we  look  in  vain  in  this  national  temple 
of  honour.  Langland,  Herrick,  Herbert,  Sidney,  Pope, 
Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Bunyan,  Sir  Thomas  More, 
Defoe,  and  Swift  are  unknown  English  writers  so  far 
as  the  Abbey  is  concerned. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
however,  there  came  a change.  Macaulay  and  Grote, 
historians,  were  both  buried  within  its  walls,  and  when 
Charles  Dickens  died  in  1870,  Dean  Stanley  at  once 

3»5 


326  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


suggested  Westminster  to  his  family,  who  declined  the 
offer.  Then  there  appeared  an  article  in  the  Times  declar- 
ing that  the  Abbey  was  the  one  place  worthy  to  receive 
so  distinguished  a writer.  Still  his  family  hesitated, 
and  at  last  only  consented  on  the  condition  that  the 
ceremony  should  be  entirely  private.  So  it  came  to  pass 
that,  one  evening  after  dark,  when  the  Abbey  was  closed, 
a grave  was  dug  in  the  Poets’  Corner  close  to  Thackeray’s 
bust,  and  in  the  early  summer  morning  the  funeral  took 
place  in  solitary  simplicity.  But  in  a few  hours  the 
news  had  spread,  and  before  the  day  was  over  thousands 
of  persons  had  been  to  take  a last  look  at  the  grave  of 
the  writer  they  loved,  many  of  them  the  very  poorest 
people,  who  yet  brought  with  them  a few  flowers  or 
some  other  humble  token  of  remembrance. 

There  was  no  aspect  of  their  life  he  had  not  under- 
stood and  sympathised  with,  for  his  boyhood’s  days  had 
been  spent  in  their  midst.  His  father,  unable  to  pay 
his  debts,  had  been  cast  into  prison  at  Marshalsea,  so 
the  Dickens  family  had  settled  in  the  neighbourhood, 
little  Charles  supporting  himself  by  pasting  labels  on 
to  blacking-pots,  and  making  the  acquaintance  of  all 
those  queer  people  and  odd  characters  with  whom  his 
writings  have  taught  us  to  be  familiar.  “ David  Copper- 
field  ” is  to  a great  extent  an  autobiography  of  Charles 
Dickens  himself,  who  started  life  “ a prey  to  the  cruel 
chances  of  the  London  streets,  and  who,  for  all  the  care 
that  was  taken  of  him,  might  easily  have  become  a little 
robber  or  vagabond,  but  for  the  mercy  of  God,”  to  use 
his  own  words.  However,  brighter  days  were  in  store 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  327 


for  him,  for  the  elder  Dickens  managed  to  get  clear 
of  his  debts  and  became  Parliamentary  reporter  to  the 
Morning  Herald;  and  Charles,  after  a few  years  at 
school,  during  which  he  had  managed  to  learn  as  much 
as  was  possible,  decided  to  take  up  newspaper  work, 
though  in  many  ways  stage  life  was  what  attracted  him 
most.  “ I was  always  an  actor  and  a writer  from  a 
mere  baby,”  he  said'. 

Fortunately  regular  work  was  offered  him  on 
the  staff  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  and  before  long 
he  had  made  his  name  as  the  “ best  Parliamentary 
reporter  in  the  Peers’  Gallery.”  From  henceforward 
he  determined  that  writing  should  be  his  career,  and 
under  the  name  of  Boz  he  launched  a book  of  Sketches, 
“ illustrating  everyday  life  and  everyday  people,”  into  the 
world.  The  sketches  were  just  what  they  claimed  to  be, 
but  it  was  a master-hand  that  had  drawn  them,  and  these 
everyday  people  were  described  with  such  a perfect  touch 
that  the  general  public,  delighted  and  greatly  enter- 
tained, at  once  set  the  young  author  on  a pedestal  of 
popularity. 

The  “ Pickwick  Papers,”  which  followed  shortly  after- 
wards, increased  his  reputation  and  established  his 
position.  Here  was  a writer  bubbling  over  with  a 
fresh,  keen  sense  of  humour,  and  in  every  page  of  his 
book  the  humour  came  out,  never  strained  or  forced, 
always  natural,  kindly,  and  infectious.  From  “ Pick- 
wick ” he  turned  to  quite  a different  style,  for  in  “ Oliver 
Twist  ” he  gave  to  the  world  a brilliant  picture  of  the 
“ dregs  of  life.”  The  subject  was  sad  enough,  and 


323  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Dickens,  before  all  things  a truthful  writer,  did  not  seek 
to  conceal  anything,  and  yet  so  wonderful  was  his 
sympathy  with  all  humanity,  even  the  most  degraded, 
that  he  never  failed  to  recognise  goodness  and  noble- 
ness however  deep  down  they  might  be  hidden  away. 
He  saw  below  the  surface,  and  in  all  that  he  wrote  he 
forced  his  readers  to  think  the  better  of  mankind. 
Dickens  went  on  from  one  success  to  another ; he 
thoroughly  understood  his  public  and  his  own  line,  and 
his  great  heart  was  so  full,  so  responsive,  so  in  tune 
with  the  tender  emotions  which  belong  to  all  men  and 
women  in  common,  that  he  never  grew  stale  or  dull. 
Master  alike  of  pathos  and  of  humour,  he  appealed  direct 
to  the  hearts  of  his  readers.  “ Nicholas  Nickleby,” 
“ The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,”  “ Martin  Chuzzlewit,”  “ The 
Christmas  Books,”  “ Dombey  & Son,”  “ David  Copper- 
field,”  “ Bleak  House,”  and  “ The  Tale  of  Two  Cities,”  in 
their  turn  won  for  him  countless  friends  and  admirers 
from  every  class  of  life  in  England  and  in  America,  for 
all  his  characters  were  living  people,  and  though  he  never 
moralised  or  lectured,  he  always  purified  and  uplifted. 

“ Do  not  harden  your  hearts,”  was  his  message  to 
the  world.  “ Sympathise,  pity,  help,  understand,  love. 
Laugh  if  you  will,  so  long  as  you  laugh  not  in  scorn ; 
but  love  always,  love  everywhere.” 

A gravestone  in  Westminster  is  his  only  monument 
there,  but  that  was  by  his  own  desire.  To  a great 
crowd  assembled  in  the  Abbey  on  the  Sunday  after  his 
funeral,  Dean  Stanley  read  aloud  these  words  from  his 
will,  “ sacred  words,”  he  said,  “ which  come  with  a new 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  329 


meaning  and  a deeper  force,  because  they  come  from  the 
lips  of  a lost  friend,  because  they  are  the  most  solemn 
utterance  of  lips  now  for  ever  closed  in  the  grave  ” : — 

“ ‘ I direct  that  my  name  be  inscribed  in  plain  English 
letters  on  my  tomb.  ...  I conjure  my  friends  on  no 
account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any  monument, 
memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever.  I rest  my  claims  to 
be  remembered  of  my  country  upon  my  published  works, 
and  to  be  remembered  of  my  friends  upon  their  experi- 
ence of  me  in  addition  thereto.  . . . And  I exhort  my 
dear  children  humbly  to  try  to  guide  themselves  by  the 
teaching  of  the  New  Testament  in  its  broad  spirit,  and 
to  put  no  faith  in  any  man’s  narrow  construction  of  its 
letter  here  or  there.’  ” 

It  was  in  this  “ broad  spirit  ” of  Christ’s  Teaching 
that  Dickens  lived  and  wrote.  He  tore  down  the  veil 
that  hid  the  lives  of  the  poor  and  suffering  from  the 
lives  of  the  rich  and  prosperous.  The  remembrance  of 
those  dark  sights  and  scenes  of  his  boyhood  never  passed 
away  from  him.  “ They  pierce  through  my  happiness, 
they  haunt  me  day  and  night,”  he  said.  He  could  never 
rest  till  he  had  lifted  up  his  voice  in  the  cause  of  those 
“ little  ones  ” whom  he  loved  and  in  whom  he  could 
recognise  so  much  that  was  beautiful  and  true.  Kind- 
ness, tenderness,  sympathy,  generosity,  and  divine  pity, 
these  were  the  stones  with  which  he  built  up  his 
monument,  and  they  are  stones  which  shall  endure 
through  the  ages  to  come,  a glorious  memorial  of  him 
“ who  loved,  with  a rare  and  touching  love,  his  friends, 
his  country,  and  his  fellow-men.” 


330  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Robert  Browning  and  Alfred  Tennyson,  the  greatest 
poets  of  our  generation,  lie  side  by  side,  underneath 
Chaucer’s  monument,  and  to  both  of  them  was  given 
a stately  public  funeral,  which  showed  how  honoured 
a place  they  held  in  the  hearts  of  their  countrymen. 
For  more  than  fifty  years  Browning  had  been  writing, 
and  only  very  slowly,  very  gradually  had  he  made  his 
way  in  the  public  favour.  He  was  not,  except  on  occa- 
sions, a sweet  singer ; his  rhymes  did  not  flow  grace- 
fully and  easily ; his  thoughts  were  great,  but  his  words 
were  clumsy ; to  himself  what  he  taught  was  as  clear 
as  the  day,  but  to  his  readers  it  was  often  sadly  confused 
and  hard  to  understand.  Nor  did  he  ever  aim  at  winning 
popularity  or  success.  He  wrote  more  for  the  future 
than  for  the  present,  and  he  was  quite  content  to  wait. 

“ Were  you  never  discouraged,”  a friend  asked  him 
once,  “at  the  indifference  of  the  public,  and  the  enmity 
of  the  critics  ? ” 

“ Never”  was  his  emphatic  answer. 

And  his  reward  came  while  he  was  still  there  to 
appreciate  and  rejoice,  not  after  death  as  is  so  often 
the  guerdon  of  him  who  sees  what  is  hidden  from  his 
fellows.  He  set  up  a standard  of  thought  and  feeling, 
and  slowly  but  steadily  he  saw  the  public  coming  up 
to  that  standard,  and  marching  onward  more  hopefully, 
more  bravely,  more  confidently.  His  life  story  is  simply 
told.  He  was  born  in  Camberwell,  and  most  of  his 
education  was  obtained  at  the  London  University. 
His  father  was  a bank  clerk,  who  hated  the  routine 
of  office  work,  and  had  a perfect  passion  for  books. 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  331 


He  read  in  season  and  out  of  season,  he  was  a familiar 
figure  at  all  the  old  book  - stalls,  he  knew  many 
languages,  and  had  a mind  literally  stored  with 
treasures  of  culture  and  learning.  Robert  soon 
showed  he  had  inherited  the  same  love  of  books,  and 
when  he  was  fourteen  coaxed  his  mother  till,  after 
some  difficulty,  she  got  him  copies  of  the  poems  written 
by  Keats  and  Shelley.  “ Those  two  poets  came  to 
me  as  two  nightingales,”  he  has  told  us,  and  from 
henceforward  his  mind  was  practically  made  up.  He, 
too,  would  be  a poet,  and  as  if  to  begin  a suitable 
course  of  training,  he  set  himself  to  read  and  master 
the  whole  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  Dictionary.  His  father 
put  no  hindrances  in  his  way,  on  the  contrary  he 
promised  him  every  assistance,  and  an  aunt  came 
forward  with  offers  of  money,  so  firmly  did  she  believe 
in  the  talents  of  her  nephew.  It  was  at  her  expense 
that  his  first  book,  “ Pauline,”  was  published  anony- 
mously, and  though  a very  small  public  appreciated 
the  work,  here  and  there  a friendly  critic  was  found 
brave  enough  to  say  that  the  author,  whoever  he  was, 
though  he  must  not  look  for  popularity  or  expect  to 
make  a sensation,  was  certainly  a poet.  “ Paracelsus  ” 
followed,  the  story  of  a man  who  desired  knowledge 
above  all  else,  and  who  in  the  search  for  knowledge 
forgot  to  seek  for  love,  hope,  fear,  and  faith,  those 
nobler  qualities  that  give  to  life  its  true  note  and 
character ; but  at  the  time  this  shared  the  same  fate 
as  “ Pauline,”  and  was  little  appreciated.  Then  he 
tried  his  hand  at  dramatic  writing,  producing  first 


332  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“Strafford”  and  afterwards  “The  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon,” 
and  though  Dickens  wrote  enthusiastically  concerning 
the  latter,  “ This  play  has  thrown  me  into  a perfect 
passion  of  sorrow.  ...  It  is  full  of  genius,  natural 
and  great  thoughts,  profound  yet  simple,  and  beautiful 
in  its  vigaur,”  Browning  contented  himself  with  say- 
ing, “ A pitfull  of  good-natured  people  applauded  it.” 
Then,  with  the  buoyant  hopefulness  which  was  part  of 
him,  he  added,  “ Failure  will  not  discourage  me  from 
another  effort : experience  is  yet  to  come,  and  earnest 
endeavour  may  yet  remove  many  disadvantages.” 

And  he  continued  to  write.  In  1844,  being  then 
thirty-two,  he  met  Elizabeth  Barrett,  the  invalid  poetess 
with  whose  work  he  was  already  familiar,  and  from 
the  first  his  heart  went  out  to  her.  For  some  time 
she  steadily  refused  to  listen  when  he  talked  of 
marriage,  on  account  of  her  ill  health.  But  his  per- 
sistence wore  down  her  half-hearted  resistance,  especially 
as  her  happiness  in  the  knowledge  of  his  love  proved 
a good  doctor,  and  she  showed  signs  of  growing  stronger. 
Her  father,  who  seems  to  have  objected  to  any  of  his 
daughters  marrying,  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Eliza- 
beth would  never  leave  home,  and  it  was  certain  he 
would  never  have  given  his  consent.  So  with  some 
misgivings  Miss  Barrett  consented  to  her  lover’s  en- 
treaties. They  were  married  privately ; he  took  her 
abroad,  and  in  her  newly  found  joy  she  rallied  sur- 
prisingly. To  the  end  of  her  life  she  was  fragile,  and 
it  was  never  possible  for  her  to  stand  side  by  side 
with  him  through  all  the  daily  ups  and  downs,  but 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  333 


the  sympathy  between  them  was  as  complete  as  their 
love  for  each  other  was  beautiful,  and  in  spite  of  the 
many  new  responsibilities  it  laid  upon  him,  his  marriage 
with  this  rare  mind  brought  a daily  increasing  happi- 
ness to  the  poet.  From  this  time  forward  much  of 
his  time  was  spent  in  Italy,  for  the  sake  of  his  wife ; 
but  when  in  1861,  with  her  death,  “the  light  of  his 
life  went  out,”  he  returned  to  London  and  lived  here 
till  the  end,  always  working,  always  genial,  drawn  more 
and  more  into  an  ever-widening  circle  of  friends,  as  the 
greatness  of  his  mind  and  genius  became  known  and 
appreciated.  Active  to  the  last,  he  died  in  1889,  while 
on  a visit  to  Venice.  But  England  claimed  him  as 
her  own,  and  so  strong  was  the  feeling  as  to  the  Poets’ 
Corner  being  the  only  place  where  he  could  be  buried, 
that  his  son  consented,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Browning  slept  under  the  blue  skies  of  Italy. 

It  would  be  quite  impossible  now  to  talk  of  Robert 
Browning’s  poems  by  name ; they  are  too  many  in 
number  and  too  deep  in  thought  to  be  lightly  dealt 
with.  But  we  can  try  to  understand  what  it  is  that 
has  made  him  so  great  a figure  in  English  literature, 
why  it  is  that  he  has  left  so  powerful  an  influence  on 
his  age. 

First  of  all  he  was  a great  teacher,  he  was  a seer, 
as  every  true  poet  must  be  if  his  work  is  to  live. 

“ To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty; 

All  things  did  speak  to  him  to  make  him  wise, 

And  with  a sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 

The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from  his  eyes. 


334  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watched  the  flowing  of  Time’s  steady  tide, 

And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him, 

And  whispered  to  him,  and  he  prophesied.” 

He  looked  on  life  as  a great  whole,  part  to  be  lived 
here,  part  to  be  lived  beyond  the  grave,  but  each  part 
belonging  to  the  other.  He  believed  that  over  all, 
guiding  all  and  through  all,  was  the  Divine  Power. 

“ God’s  in  His  Heaven  : 

All’s  well  in  the  world.” 

He  knew  that  human  nature  must  work  its  way 
upwards  by  struggling  bravely  on  through  the  darkness, 
certain  of  victory  at  last,  because  good  and  not  evil  was 
the  all-conquering  force.  And  so,  while  he  was  full  of 
hope  and  full  of  confidence,  his  understanding  and  his 
sympathies  were  boundless. 

Courage  ! unfailing,  confident  courage ! is  the  refrain 
of  which  he  never  wearies.  Aspire  towards  the  highest ; 
be  your  best ; love  for  love’s  sake  and  not  for  reward ; 
work  your  hardest;  fight  valiantly  to  the  end ; never  listen 
to  despair ; never  lessen  your  efforts.  It  is  the  struggle 
and  the  striving  that  makes  life  worth  living,  for — 

“ Life  is  probation,  and  this  earth  no  goal 
But  starting-point  of  men.” 

Nor  is  there  such  a thing  as  failure  to  those  who  aspire 
rightly. 

“ A man’s  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what’s  a Heaven  for  1 ” 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  335 
And  again — 

“ Then  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth’s  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit,  nor  stand,  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three  parts  pain, 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang  : dare,  never  grudge  the  throe.” 

The  power  and  the  love  of  God,  the  possibilities  within 
the  reach  of  every  man,  and  the  unalterable  certainty 
of  the  life  beyond,  these  beliefs  made  it  impossible  for 
Browning  to  sing  in  any  but  a hopeful  strain,  and  it  is 
for  this  that  we  owe  him  our  deepest  debt  of  gratitude. 
For  he  always  encourages  us,  he  always  inspires  us,  he 
always  sends  us  on  our  way  cheered  by  his  own  strong 
faith. 

Sometimes,  it  is  true,  his  verse  is  rough  and  rugged, 
often  he  is  so  absorbed  in  the  sense  of  what  he  says  that 
he  cares  very  little  how  he  says  it,  but  every  poem  he 
wrote  holds  so  many  precious  things  that  it  is  worth  while 
wading  through  difficult  places  to  get  at  them.  And  as 
he  himself  once  said,  “ With  care  for  a man  or  a book, 
most  obstacles  can  be  overcome.” 

Many  a poem  could  I give  to  show  you  that  Brown- 
ing could  pour  out  sweet  music  when  he  wrote  of 
certain  subjects.  Here  is  one  of  his  most  charming 
songs — “ Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad  ” : — 

“ Oh  to  be  in  England  now  that  April’s  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Bound  the  elm -tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  1 


336  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  1 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray’s  edge, — 

That’s  the  wise  thrush  ; he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first,  fine,  careless  rapture  ! ” 

On  the  day  of  his  death  there  was  published  the  last 
volume  of  his  poems,  and  it  had  been  a great  pleasure  to 
him  to  hear  with  how  much  interest  they  were  expected. 
For  more  than  fifty  years  he  had  waited,  and  at  last 
his  message  to  his  generation  was  being  understood. 
He  had  been  “ ever  a fighter,”  and  now,  as  he  stood 
facing  that  “ one  fight  more,  the  best  and  the  last,” 
which  was  at  hand,  he  had  still  one  fine  marching  son" 
to  send  back  to  his  fellow-men. 

“ Never  say  of  me  that  I am  dead”  he  had  asked  of 
a friend  not  long  before. 

“ No  work  begun  shall  ever  pause  for  death  ! 

Love  will  be  helpful  to  me  more  and  more 
In  the  coming  course,  the  new  path  I must  tread.” 

So  when  those  who  loved  him  read  the  words  that  told 
how  Robert  Browning  had  died  at  Venice,  having  lived 
more  than  his  threescore  years  and  ten,  they  turned  for 
their  comfort  to  his  last  stirring  message,  and  remembered 
him  as  he  had  wished  to  be  remembered — 

“ At  the  midnight,  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep  time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies,  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so. 

Pity  me  1 


Walker  & Cockerell. 


Lord  Tknnyson. 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  337 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken ! 

What  had  I on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly  ? 

Like  the  aimless,  hopeless,  did  I drivel 
Being  who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 

Never  dreamed  though  right  were  worsted  wrong  could  triumph. 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 

Sleep  to  wake  ! 

No,  at  noonday,  in  the  bustle  of  men’s  work  time, 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a cheer. 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back,  as  either  should  be. 

‘ Strive  and  strive  ! ’ cry  Speed — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here.” 

Three  years  after  Browning’s  death  a crowd  of  over 
eleven  thousand  persons  filled  Westminster  to  every  corner, 
on  the  day  when  our  other  great  poet,  Alfred  Tennyson, 
was  borne  here,  to  remain  for  ever  “ a citizen  of  the 
Abbey.”  His  coffin,  fitly  draped  with  the  Union  Jack, 
because  some  of  his  finest  lines  had  been  called  out  by 
the  thought  of  Empire,  Flag,  and  Queen,  was  surrounded 
by  all  the  most  noteworthy  men  of  the  day  as  it  was 
carried  slowly  through  the  aisles,  “ down  the  avenue 
of  those  men,  princes  and  peers  by  right  of  intel- 
lect divine.”  Tennyson,  like  Browning,  had  written  a 
last  message  to  the  world,  but  his  was  not  a march- 
ing song.  Instead  it  breathes  of  perfect  peace,  of  the 
joy  which  came  to  him,  “ who  throughout  the  night 
had  trusted  all  to  Him  that  held  the  helm,  and  then 
saw  face  to  face,  full  flushed  and  glorious  with  the 
new  morning’s  glow,  the  Pilot  whom  he  had  trusted.” 


Y 


338  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


“ Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 
When  I embark  ; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I have  crost  the  bar.” 

These  thoughts  of  his  filled  the  Abbey  with  a sense 
of  their  restfulness ; then  there  thundered  out  from 
thousands  of  voices  the  familiar  hymn — 

“ Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty  ! ” 

and  the  words  recalled  to  many  a mind  that  Vision  of 
which  the  clear-souled  poet  had  sung,  the  Gleam  he  had  so 
faithfully  followed,  until  now  it  had  surely  led  him  right 
up  to  the  presence  of  God. 

Alfred  Tennyson  had  been  born  at  a country  vicarage 
in  Lincolnshire  in  the  year  1809,  and  had  begun  to 
scribble  verse  almost  as  soon  as  he  could  write.  When 
he  was  eight  he  produced  such  lines  as — 

“ With  slaughterous  sons  of  thunder  rolled  the  flood,” 

which  he  thought  “ very  grand  ” at  the  time ; at  twelve 
he  wrote  a poem  of  six  thousand  lines,  and  at  fourteen 
a drama.  He  was  not  the  sort  of  boy  likely  to  be  very 
happy  at  school,  and  he  had,  as  he  described  it,  “ to 
shout  his  verses  to  the  skies.”  But  to  his  brother  he 
was  wont  to  say  many  a time,  “ Well,  Arthur,  I mean 
to  be  famous.”  He  went  to  Cambridge,  and  when 
Thompson,  that  shrewd  observer,  afterwards  Master  of 
Trinity,  saw  him  walk  into  the  hall,  “ six  feet  high, 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  339 


broad-chested,  strong-limbed,  his  face  Shakespearean 
and  with  deep  eyelids,  his  forehead  ample,  crowned  with 
dark  wavy  hair,  his  head  firmly  poised,”  he  remarked, 
“ That  man  must  be  a poet ! ” 

In  1829  he  won  the  University  Prize  Poem  on  the 
not  very  inspiring  subject  of  Timbuctoo,  and  soon  after- 
wards published  a volume  of  short  poems,  which  was 
warmly  welcomed  and  admired  by  his  friends,  one  of 
whom,  Arthur  Hallam,  remarked,  “ Tennyson  will  be  the 
greatest  poet  of  our  generation.”  But  the  general  public 
cared  little  for  poetry,  and  preferred  novels,  so  that 
Tennyson  was  thought  to  have  scored  quite  a success 
when  three  hundred  copies  of  his  book  had  been  sold. 

In  1833  there  fell  on  him  a stunning  blow.  Arthur 
Hallam,  the  friend  whom  he  had  loved  with  an  in- 
tense love,  who  was  so  full  of  exceptional  promise  that 
every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  believed  the 
greatest  future  was  in  store  for  him,  died  quite  suddenly, 
and  to  Tennyson  it  seemed  as  if  from  henceforth  the 
very  light  of  his  life  had  been  snatched  from  him. 
Dark  were  the  years  that  followed,  rendered  more  so 
by  the  fact  that  the  young  poet  was  very  poor  and  saw 
no  chance  of  being  able  to  marry  the  woman  he  loved. 
But  gradually,  as  he  “ faced  the  need  of  going  forward 
and  braving  the  struggle  of  life  ” (to  use  his  own  words), 
a fuller  understanding  and  a wider  view  opened  out 
before  him.  Sorrow  and  work  together  led  him  out 
of  the  valley.  He  produced  several  volumes  of  short 
poems,  each  one  showing  more  certainly  his  great  poetic 
sense,  his  gift  of  using  musical  and  beautiful  language, 


340  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


and  each  one,  too,  making  it  clear  from  the  subjects 
he  chose,  and  his  way  of  dealing  with  them,  that  he 
himself,  like  the  poet  of  whom  he  wrote — 

“ Saw  thro’  life  and  death,  thro’  good  and  ill, 

. . . Thro’  his  own  soul, 

The  marvel  of  the  Everlasting  Will 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay.” 

Then  came  “ The  Princess,”  a longer  work  and  a most 
delightful  one,  in  which  Tennyson,  many  years  in  ad- 
vance of  public  opinion,  pleaded  the  cause  of  women’s 
education,  and  showed  that  “ Woman’s  cause  is  man’s ; 
they  rise  or  sink  together ; ” and  though  “ distinct  in 
individualities,”  they  must  be  “ self-reverent  each,  and 
reverencing  each,”  if  they  would  in  all  their  powers 
dispense  the  harvest,  “ sowing  the  To-be.” 

In  1850  he  published  his  greatest  work,  “In  Me- 
moriam,”  the  poem  which  came  straight  from  his  own 
heart,  and  went  as  straight  to  the  hearts  of  all  who 
ached  under  some  crushing,  desolating  blow.  It  told 
of  his  love  for  his  dead  friend,  and  how  this  very 
love  led  him  onwards  and  upwards,  away  from  his 
own  selfish  sorrow,  away  from  despair  and  darkness, 
till  with  this  larger  hope  there  came  faith  in  God  and 
faith  in  man ; the  certainty  that  good  must  be  the 
final  goal  of  ill ; the  conviction  that  Love  was  the  great 
power  working  in  all  and  through  all,  destined  in  the 
end  to  conquer  all.  “ In  Memoriam  ” has  been  rightly 
called  “ the  triumph  of  a great  love.”  The  work 
brought  him  fame  if  not  fortune,  and  at  last  he  was 
able  to  marry  her  “ who  brought  into  his  life,”  he  said, 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  341 


“ the  peace  of  God.”  A year  later  he  was  made  Poet 
Laureate,  and  settled  down  to  a quiet  country  life 
at  Farringford.  “ Maud,”  and  some  of  his  war  poems, 
“The  Ode  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,”  and  “The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,”  were  included  in  his 
work  of  the  next  few  years,  and  then  came  what  he 
considered  the  most  ambitious  thing  he  had  attempted, 
“ The  Idylls  of  the  King.”  The  old  mysterious  story 
of  King  Arthur  and  his  knights  had  fascinated  many 
a poet  before  him,  .and  the  romance  of  it  all  laid  full 
hold  on  his  imagination.  Nay,  more  than  this,  for  he 
saw  beyond  the  fragmentary  story,  and  each  one  of  the 
characters,  under  his  hand,  stands  out  in  a new  light. 
Arthur,  Galahad,  Percival,  Bedivere,  Lancelot,  Guinevere, 
Enid,  and  Elaine — how  real  they  all  become  to  us  ! How 
intensely  vivid  are  the  scenes  unfolded  before  our  eyes, 
how  great  and  noble  are  the  ideals  of  the  true  chivalry 
as  distinguished  from  the  false,  towards  which  Tennyson 
leads  us,  reverence  for  conscience,  faithfulness  to  duty, 
pure-heartedness,  love  of  truth,  fear  of  sin,  courtesy, 
gentleness,  courage,  pity,  and  forgiveness. 

“ A poet  must  teach,  but  not  preach,”  Tennyson  once 
said,  and  I think  it  is  in  these  legendary  stories  of  “ The 
Idylls,”  told  in  the  beautiful  language  of  which  he  was 
master,  that  the  poet  has  given  some  of  his  greatest 
lessons,  and  has  held  up  his  loftiest  ideals  to  the  age  in 
which  he  lived.  After  “ The  Idylls  ” came  some  dramas, 
and  many  short  poems,  “ Enoch  Arden,”  perhaps,  being 
the  one  best  liked  by  the  large  public  Tennyson  could 
now  command.  But  even  to  touch  on  the  short  poems  is 


342  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


impossible  here,  so  many  and  so  varied  are  they ; some, 
soul-stirring  and  patriotic,  as  “ The  Defence  of  Luck- 
now ” or  “ The  Revenge ; ” some,  poems  of  nature ; 
some,  coloured  with  the  quaint,  north-country  humour 
he  knew  so  well ; some,  exquisite  little  word-pictures. 
His  last  volume  of  all  was  published  in  1889,  and 
it  included  “ Merlin  and  the  Gleam,”  an  allegory  of 
the  ideals  he  had  set  before  himself  as  a poet.  He,  as 
the  old  man,  talks  to  the  young  mariners  just  about 
to  set  out.  He  tells  of  the  Gleam  which  shines  for 
every  one  who  will  see  it ; which  calls,  which  beckons 
on  through  wilderness,  desolate  hollows,  and  wraiths  of 
the  mountain ; past  warbles  of  water  and  cataract  music 
of  falling  torrents ; by  rolling  of  dragons  and  over  the 
level  of  pasture  and  ploughland.  Onwards,  ever  on- 
wards, it  leads.  To  follow  it  is  to  live,  to  die  in  the 
search  for  it  is  happiness,  for  the  Gleam  can  never  fail. 

“ Through  the  magic 
Of  Him  that  is  mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 
Of  boundless  Ocean 
And  all  but  in  Heaven 
Hovers  the  Gleam.” 

So  to  the  young  mariners,  he,  the  old  magician,  gives  his 
parting  word  of  counsel — 

“ Down  to  the  haven, 

Launch  your  vessel 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 

And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 

After  it,  follow  it, 

Follow  the  Gleam.” 


DICKENS,  BROWNING,  AND  TENNYSON  343 

“ I want  to  go  down  to  posterity,”  Tennyson  once  said, 
“ as  a poet  who  uttered  nothing  base.”  And  the  criti- 
cism which  he  declared  was  “ the  best  and  tenderest 
praise  that  came  to  cheer  his  old  age,”  was  the  remark 
of  a girl  who  said,  “ When  I read  his  poems,  I always 
rise  determined  to  be  better.” 

Much  might  be  said  about  the  perfect  music  of  his 
poetry ; the  richness  of  his  imagination ; the  faultless 
ear  he  had  for  words ; the  crystal  clearness  of  his  style ; 
his  power  to  see  beauty  and,  having  seen  it,  to  shape 
it ; his  sympathy,  his  sensitive  understanding,  and  his 
lofty  ideals.  His  claim  to  greatness  is  based  on  all  that 
and  still  more.  Out  of  the  depths  of  his  pure  soul  he 
gazed  on  all  things  lovely,  just,  true,  pure,  and  of 
good  report ; and  translating  these  into  language  easy 
to  be  understood,  he  led  those  who  listened  to  him  along 
the  Road  Beautiful,  till  they  too  stood  with  him  on 

“ The  heights  of  life,  with  a glimpse  of  a height  that  is  higher.” 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 

There  are  still  many  monuments  and  memorials  in  the 
Abbey  which  do  not  come  in  under  the  broad  headings 
we  have  made,  and  to  some  few  of  these  I must  take 
you  in  this  our  last  wander  round  the  aisles  and 
chapels. 

As  we  come  in  by  the  great  north  entrance  and  pass 
between  the  row  of  statesmen,  we  must  stop  for  a 
moment  by  the  Canning  group  and  notice  the  monu- 
ment to  the  “ loyall  Duke  of  Newcastle,”  who  lost  a 
large  fortune  and  became  an  exile  from  England  on 
account  of  his  devoted  faithfulness  to  Charles  I.  The 
Duchess,  who  came  of  a family  in  which  “ all  the 
brothers  were  valiant  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous,”  was, 
in  the  Duke’s  eyes  at  least,  a very  “ wise,  witty,  and 
learned  lady,”  though  every  one  did  not  deem  her  so. 
Pepys,  when  he  made  her  acquaintance,  wrote : “ She 
is  a good,  comely  woman,  but  her  dress  is  so  antick,  and 
her  deportment  so  ordinary,  that  I did  not  like  her  at 
all.  Nor  did  I hear  her  say  anything  that  was  worth 

344 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


345 


hearing.”  It  was  curiosity,  I suppose,  that  caused 
Pepys  to  stay  at  home  one  day  “ to  read  the  history  of 
my  Lord  of  Newcastle,  written  by  his  wife.”  Certainly 
his  criticisms  were  not  favourable.  “ It  shows  her  to  be 
a mad,  conceited,  ridiculous  woman,”  he  said.  “ And  he 
is  an  ass  to  suffer  her  to  write  what  she  writes  to  him 
and  of  him.” 

Perhaps  the  “ loyall  Duke  ” found  his  learned  lady  not 
always  quite  easy  to  restrain,  for  he  is  reported  once  to 
have  declared  to  a friend,  “ Sir,  a very  wise  woman  may 
be  a very  foolish  thing.” 

But  she  had  better  claims  than  her  wit  or  wisdom  to 
his  love,  as  the  inscription  on  her  monument  tells,  for 
she  proved  herself  to  be  “ a louvinge  carefull  wife,  who 
was  with  her  lord  all  the  time  of  his  banishment  and 
miseries,  and  when  he  came  home,  never  parted  from 
him  in  all  his  solitary  retirements.” 

Round  the  west  door,  and  underneath  the  statue  of  the 
younger  Pitt,  are  a number  of  memorial  monuments  to 
men,  many  of  whom  lived  and  laboured  in  our  own  times. 
There  is  Lord  John  Russell,  the  great  statesman,  who 
throughout  his  life  was  true  to  the  emblem  and  the 
motto  of  his  house,  which  you  will  see  on  the  pedestal — 
a mountain  goat  wending  its  way  through  dangerous 
precipices,  but  never  losing  its  footing.  And  there  is 
General  Gordon,  true  type  of  the  happy  warrior,  who 
lived  for  the  poor,  the  needy,  and  the  oppressed,  and 
who  fell  at  his  post  in  far  Khartoum,  faithful  unto 
death.  On  the  one  side  is  a spot  sometimes  called  the 


346  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Little  Poets’  Corner,  and  here,  under  a window  given 
by  an  American  to  the  memory  of  George  Herbert  and 
Cowper,  “ both  Westminster  scholars,  and  both  religious 
poets,”  we  find  statues  or  busts  of  Wordsworth ; of  the 
two  Arnolds,  Dr.  Arnold,  the  schoolmaster,  and  his  son 
Matthew  Arnold,  the  poet,  whose  beautiful  verses  about 
his  father,  telling  of  his  radiant  vigour,  his  buoyant  cheer- 
fulness, his  strong  soul,  have  inspired  many  a one 
struggling  to  be  a leader,  not  a laggard,  in  the  march 
of  life.  Here  also  is  Keble,  another  religious  poet, 
some  of  whose  hymns,  “ Sun  of  my  Soul  ” and  “ New 
every  morning  is  the  Love,”  are  as  well  known  to  all 
of  us  as  any  poems  in  our  language ; and  close  by  we 
find  Maurice,  the  teacher  and  preacher  who  influenced 
so  many  young  men  to  become  knights  of  their  own 
day ; to  war  against  all  that  was  mean,  or  base,  or  false ; 
to  fight  in  the  foremost  rank  for  the  wronged  or  the 
oppressed  ; to  champion  the  unpopular  cause,  and  defend 
the  truth  well-nigh  forgotten.  By  those  who  loved  him 
he  was  called  the  Prophet,  because  he  stood,  as  it  were, 
between  God  and  man,  because  he  looked  beyond  the 
present  and  the  things  that  are  seen,  right  into  the 
hidden  glories  of  the  things  eternal.  Kingsley,  too,  lies 
here,  the  most  famous  of  Maurice’s  disciples — the  man 
who  was  scholar,  poet,  novelist,  thinker,  teacher,  enthu- 
siast, and  leader  all  in  one ; who  roused  his  listeners  to 
a sense  of  the  duty  that  lay  at  their  door ; who  taught 
them  to  love  the  beautiful  things  in  nature  even  as  they 
loved  nature’s  God  ; who  made  them  enthusiastic  for  all 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


347 


that  was  chivalrous  and  soul-stirring ; who  himself  so 
loved  all  humanity  that  round  his  grave  the  highest  in 
the  land,  gipsies  from  the  country  lanes,  and  white-faced, 
sweated  toilers  from  the  great  cities,  mourned  side  by 
side,  this  their  great-hearted  friend. 

Fittingly  in  this  group  comes  Henry  Fawcett,  the  most 
knightly  figure  in  modern  politics.  For  though  he  be- 
came blind  through  an  accident  when  he  was  twenty-five, 
he  refused  to  let  that  turn  him  aside  from  his  purpose, 
and  threw  himself  all  the  more  earnestly  into  public 
life.  At  first  when  he  tried  to  go  into  Parliament  he 
was  beaten,  the  electors  actually  being  afraid  of  a blind 
candidate,  but  gradually  his  speeches,  which  showed  how 
much  he  thought  and  cared,  and  how  intensely  alive  he 
was  to  the  needs  of  the  working  classes,  broke  down 
this  foolish  prejudice,  and  once  in  the  House  he  was 
loved  as  he  was  trusted  by  men  of  both  parties.  His 
monument  is  quite  one  of  the  most  beautiful  among  the 
modern  monuments,  and  one  great  authority  has  declared 
that  “ the  exquisite  little  figures  which  adorn  it  are  the 
best  of  their  kind  since  the  little  angels  were  placed  on 
the  tomb  of  Queen  Philippa.” 

In  the  south  aisle  of  the  choir  is  the  monument 
of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  which  so  annoyed  Addison. 
And  indeed  it  is  rather  hard  on  this  British  sailor, 
who  worked  his  way  up  from  the  lowest  rank  till  he 
became  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Fleet,  and  was 
drowned  in  a shipwreck  off  the  Isle  of  Scilly,  to  be 
handed  down  to  posterity,  dressed,  not  in  the  uniform 


348  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


he  loved  and  wore  so  honourably,  but  in  the  armour  of  a 
Roman  general ! 

Monuments  to  Doctor  Isaac  Watts  the  hymn  writer 
and  to  John  and  Charles  Wesley  are  here,  and  very 
appropriate  is  the  Wesley  inscription,  “The  whole  world 
is  my  Parish,”  breathing  as  it  does  the  great-hearted 
spirit  of  the  Abbey. 

Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  the  only  painter  who  has  a 
monument  in  the  Abbey,  refused  to  be  buried  here,  de- 
claring he  would  not  lie  among  fools,  and  he  left  money 
for  a memorial  to  himself  which  was  to  be  put  up  in 
Twickenham  Church.  But  the  place  he  had  chosen  had 
already  been  appropriated  by  Pope,  who  refused  to  give 
way,  so  that  after  all  the  monument  had  to  be  put  up  in 
Westminster,  and  Pope,  by  way  of  compensation,  under- 
took to  write  the  inscription,  in  which  he  declared  that 
“ Kneller  was  by  Heaven,  not  by  master  taught.” 

Gilbert  Thornburgh,  a courtier,  has  a delightful  Latin 
epitaph  which  states  that 

“ He  was  always  faithful 
To  his  God,  his  Prince,  and  his  Friends. 

Formerly  an  earthly,  now  an  Heavenly  Courtier, 

It  shall  be  no  more  said  in  the  Age  to  come, 

Who  must  be  good  must  leave  the  Court, 

When  such  shining  Piety  as  his  shall  appear  there.” 

Some  epitaphs  are  humorous,  as  when  we  read  of 
one  Francis  Newman,  a Fellow  of  All  Souls  College  in 
Oxford,  who  in  1649,  “divested  of  Body  was  received 
among  the  seats  of  the  Blessed  Souls,  and  became  truly 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


349 


a New-Man;”  or  of  Sir  John  Fullerton,  a courtier,  who 
died  “ Fuller  of  Faith  than  of  Feare,  Fuller  of  Resolution 
than  of  Paines,  Fuller  of  Honour  than  of  Dayes.” 

Unconsciously  humorous  are  the  words  on  the  tomb- 
stone of  James  Fox,  who  at  the  age  of  twelve  fell  ill  of 
smallpox  and  took  his  flight  to  heaven.  “ He  was  a 
man  even  when  a child,  and  a Hercules  from  his  cradle ; 
favoured  with  Beauty,  Wisdom,  and  all  Endowments  of 
Mind  and  Body  no  less  than  were  Adonis,  Venus,  and 
Apollo ; a child  of  singular  dutifulness  and  great  sin- 
cerity.” 

“ Oh  parents  ! pity  his  parents. 

Oh  posterity  ! reflect  upon  your  loss  ! ” 

It  was  smallpox  which  caused  the  death  both  of 
Richard  Boothey — who  was  “ of  manly  judgment  even 
in  his  youth,  of  so  happy  a memory  as  to  be  envied,  a 
flower,  more  beautiful  than  the  rest,  cut  off  in  the  spring 
of  life  ” — and  of  Mr.  Thomas  Smith,  buried  in  the  little 
cloisters,  “ who  through  the  spotted  veil  of  smallpox  ren- 
dered a pure  unspotted  soul  to  God,  expecting  but  never 
fearing  death.” 

More  pathetic  perhaps  than  any  other  is  the  little  tablet 
in  the  cloisters  which  marks  the  grave  of  “ Jane  Lister, 
dear  child,”  though  almost  as  touching  is  the  inscription 
which  tells  us  of  “ Mary,  daughter  of  William  Green, 
more  adorned  with  virtue  than  with  high  birth,  who  married 
William  Bulrner,  Gentleman,  to  whom  she  was  no  occa- 
sion of  trouble  except  by  leaving  him  at  her  death.  She 
bore  him  one  son,  William,  a youth  of  great  genius,  who 


350  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


was  snatched  away  by  too  hasty  death.  His  most 
tender  mother  chose  to  be  buried  near  him,  that  she, 
though  dead,  might  be  united  in  death  with  him  she 
so  entirely  loved  while  living.”  Right  at  the  other 
end  of  the  Abbey,  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  Erasmus,  is  the 
tomb  of  Mrs.  Mary  Kendall,  which  has  these  words 
for  inscription : — 

“ She  had  great  virtues,  and  as  great  a desire  of  concealing  them. 

Was  of  a severe  life,  but  of  an  easy  conversation. 

Courteous  to  all,  yet  strictly  sincere. 

Humble  without  meanness.  Beneficent  without  ostentation. 

Devout  without  superstition. 

Those  admirable  qualities, 

In  which  she  was  equalled  by  few  of  her  sex,  surpassed  by  none, 
Rendered  her  in  every  way  worthy  of  that  close  union  and  friendship 
In  which  she  lived  with  the  Lady  Katherine  Jones.” 

And  in  the  adjoining  Chapel  of  St.  Andrew  is  the 
heart-broken  tribute  of  the  Earl  of  Kerry,  “ to  his  affec- 
tionately beloved  wife,  Anastatia,  the  dearest,  most 
loved,  most  faithful  companion  that  ever  blessed  man, 
who  for  thirty-one  years  rendered  him  the  happiest 
of  mankind.” 

The  last  of  our  epitaphs  must  be  that  of  Archbishop 
Boulter,  who  pulled  a great  many  political  strings 
in  Ireland,  and  lived  a very  eventful  life.  But  his 
inscription  reveals  us  none  of  these  things,  and  only  de- 
scribes a series  of  promotions,  for  it  relates  that  “ He  was 
born  January  the  4th,  1671  : he  was  consecrated  Bishop 
of  Bristol  1718:  he  was  translated  to  the  Archbishoprick 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


35i 

of  Armagh  in  1723,  and  from  thence  to  Heaven,  on  Sep. 

27,  1742.” 

Over  Abbot  Islip’s  Chapel  is  a chantry,  now  used  for 
keeping  the  few  wax  effigies  which  remain.  For,  as  you 
remember,  it  used  to  be  the  custom  at  royal  funerals,  or 
indeed  at  any  important  funerals,  to  carry  the  likeness 
of  the  dead  man  or  woman  before  the  coffin ; these 
painted  effigies  being  made  of  boiled  leather,  wood,  or 
wax,  dressed  up  in  the  clothes  of  the  person  they 
represented.  Only  eleven  of  these  remain,  though 
at  one  time  there  must  have  been  quite  a collection  of 
royal  figures  in  the  Abbey  which  were  open  to  the 
public  gaze,  and  evidently  left  to  the  mercy  of  the 
public.  Queen  Elizabeth  can  still  be  seen,  gorgeously 
dressed,  but  weary  and  sad-looking ; Charles  II.  is  there, 
and  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Richmond  of  the  Stuart 
race,  whose  monument,  with  that  of  her  husband,  is  in 
Henry  VII.’s  Chapel.  Then  there  is  the  Duchess  of 
Buckinghamshire,  proud  and  pomp-loving,  who  insisted 
on  seeing  the  canopy  for  her  funeral  hearse,  that  she 
might  be  sure  it  was  maguificent  enough,  and  who  made 
her  attendants  promise  that  even  when  she  became  un- 
conscious they  would  still  stand  in  her  presence.  By 
her  is  her  little  son,  and  near  her,  her  eldest  son,  who 
also  died  young.  Queen  Anne  beams  on  us ; William 
and  Mary  have  the  crown  set  between  them,  and  he 
stands  on  a stool  so  as  not  to  appear  smaller  than  his 
wife.  General  Monk’s  armour  is  there,  much  the  worse 
for  wear ; and  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  is  splendid  in  his 


352  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Parliamentary  robes.  Nelson  was  put  here  from  a very 
worldly  point  of  view,  for  when  he  was  buried  in  St. 
Paul’s,  such  crowds  went  to  see  his  grave,  that  West- 
minster Abbey  was  neglected,  and  as  the  pence  of  the 
sightseers  were  too  valuable  to  be  lost,  it  was  decided 
that  some  memorial  of  the  great  hero  must  be  placed  in 
the  Abbey  to  attract  people  back  again.  All  the  clothes 
except  the  coat,  and  certainly  the  hat,  belonged  to 
Nelson,  but  a waxwork  effigy  hardly  seems  a worthy 
monument  to  him  in  the  place  which  he  must  have 
loved  and  honoured,  nay,  must  have  dreamt  of,  when  he 
cried  to  his  men  as  he  led  them  to  attack,  “ Westminster 
Abbey,  or  glorious  victory.” 

And  now,  leaving  monuments,  sleeping  figures,  epi- 
taphs, inscriptions,  and  effigies,  come  and  stand  for  a 
moment  on  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  High  Altar,  that 
we  may  take  our  last  look  at  the  Abbey  from  what  is 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  spot  in  it.  For,  as  you  will 
remember,  it  is  in  this  part  of  the  Church  that  the  coro- 
nation service  takes  place,  it  is  here  that  every  sovereign 
of  England  has  been  crowned  from  the  days  of  Harold 
onwards. 

The  pavement  inside  the  rails  is  made  of  the  mosaics 
brought  back  from  Rome  by  Abbot  Ware  in  1267,  where 
he  went  to  be  duly  confirmed  in  his  office  by  the  Pope ; 
the  pillars  near  the  altar  are  on  the  very  bases  which 
were  put  there  when  Edward  the  Confessor  built  his 
church.  Here  are  the  tombs  of  Aymer  de  Valence,  of 
Edmund  Crouchback,  Earl  of  Lancaster,  and  of  Aveline 


From  /koto  5.  R.  Bolas  &•  Co. 


The  PIigh  Altar. 

(shewing  abbot  ware’s  pavement.) 


01^5 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


353 


his  young  wife,  who  as  a bride  had  stood  in  front 
of  the  altar  but  a few  months  before  her  death  in 
the  year  1269.  Opposite,  King  Sebert  is  said  to  lie; 
under  the  pavement  rests  Abbot  Ware,  with  other  of  his 
successors,  and  Richard  the  Second’s  sad  helpless  face 
looks  at  us  from  his  portrait  with  its  fine  background  of 
tapestry.  The  altar  and  the  reredos  which  we  see  are 
both  new,  and  just  as  the  old  frieze  through  in  the  Con- 
fessor’s Chapel  depicts  scenes  in  the  life  of  Edward,  so 
the  modern  reredos  gives  us  glimpses  of  Him  in  whose 
honour  the  Saxon  king  first  raised  these  walls.  From 
among  the  gold,  four  white  figures  stand  out,  “ the  four 
living  creatures  which  have  been  thought  worthy  to 
stand  round  the  central  figure  of  our  departing  Master,” 
as  Dean  Stanley  described  them  when  they  were  erected. 
On  the  right  stands  St.  Peter,  patron  saint  of  the  Abbey, 
holding  in  one  hand  the  keys,  and  in  the  other  a book, 
on  which  is  written  the  great  truth,  “ God  is  no  respecter 
of  persons,”  and  next  to  him  is  Moses,  the  first  states- 
man and  lawgiver,  looking  towards  the  buried  statesmen 
in  the  Abbey. 

On  the  left  stands  St.  Paul,  grasping  in  his  hand  that 
Sword  of  the  Spirit  which  he  had  named  as  the  weapon 
of  the  Christian  warrior,  and  by  him  is  David,  the  sweet 
singer  of  Israel,  whose  face  is  turned  towards  the  Poets’ 
Corner  as  though  he  would  claim  those  sleeping  there 
for  his  brethren. 

Through  the  glass  we  catch  a glimpse  of  the  Chapel  of 
the  Kings,  and  all  around  is  a network  of  slender  arches 

z 


354  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

fashioned  by  master-hands  into  forms  of  stately  but 
perfect  beauty.  High  above  are  the  three  Eastern 
Windows,  though  in  the  course  of  the  years  these  have 
been  so  constantly  repaired  with  any  scraps  of  glass  avail- 
able, that  the  effect  is  rather  confusing.  But  the  figure 
of  a thorn-crowned  Christ  stands  out,  and  near  to  Him 
are  Edward  the  Confessor  and  St.  John  the  Evangelist. 

Now  turn  to  the  west,  look  at  the  glade  of  arches 
stretching  down  the  nave,  at  the  Statesmen’s  Corner  on 
the  right,  where  under  the  Rose  Window  Chatham’s  fine 
figure  stands  out  almost  with  an  air  of  proud  satisfac- 
tion, and  then  towards  the  left  to  the  monument  of 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  and  the  more  imposing  memorial 
to  the  great  Duke  of  Argyll,  “ an  honest  man,  a con- 
stant friend,  a general  and  an  orator.”  Two  command- 
ing statues  of  Campbell  and  Addison  loom  out  in  the 
half  light,  Campbell  casting  a shadow  over  the  graves  of 
Abbot  Litlington,  Owen  Tudor,  and  Dean  Benson,  and 
hiding  from  our  view  the  dignified,  thoughtful  figure  of 
William  Shakespeare,  who  holds  in  his  hands  a scroll  on 
which  are  those  lines  of  his  from  the  “ Tempest  ” : — 

“ The  cloud-capt  towers, 

The  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples, 

The  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit 
Shall  dissolve, 

And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a vision 
Leave  not  a wreck  behind.” 

Burns  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  greet  us  from  their  niches ; 
Grote  and  Thirlwall,  the  truth-loving  writers  of  history ; 


A LAST  WANDER  AROUND 


355 


Camden,  the  Westminster  master  and  antiquarian;  Garrick 
the  actor,  Handel  the  musician,  all  cluster  around  us  as 
we  look  down  the  southern  aisle ; and  we  can  just  see  at 
the  end  the  newest  addition  to  the  building,  a bronze 
memorial  to  John  Ruskin,  a great  teacher  and  writer 
of  our  own  day.  Some  words  of  his  come  to  my  mind 
at  this  moment,  as  applying  in  a very  special  sense  to 
the  Abbey : “ The  greatest  glory  of  a building  is  not  in 
its  stones,  nor  in  its  gold.  The  glory  is  in  its  age, 
and  in  that  deep  sense  of  voicefulness,  of  stern  watch- 
ing, of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even  of  approval 
or  condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have 
long  been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity. 
...  It  is  in  the  golden  stain  of  time  that  we  are  to 
look  for  the  real  light,  and  colour,  and  preciousness 
of  architecture ; and  it  is  not  until  a building  has 
assumed  this  character,  till  it  has  been  entrusted  with 
the  fame  and  hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men,  till  its 
walls  have  been  witnesses  of  suffering,  and  its  pillars 
rise  out  of  the  shadows  of  death,  that  its  existence,  more 
lasting  as  it  is  than  the  natural  objects  of  the  world 
around  it,  can  be  gifted  with  even  so  much  as  those 
possess  of  language  and  of  life.  Therefore,  when  we 
build,  let  us  think  that  we  build  for  ever.  . . . God  has 
lent  us  the  earth  for  our  life  ; it  is  a great  entail.  It 
belongs  as  much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  and 
whose  names  are  already  written  in  the  Book  of  Creation, 
as  to  us." 

And  surely,  too,  the  Abbey  leads  our  thoughts 


356  THE  STORY  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


towards  other  temples,  which  it  is  ours  to  guard,  to 
honour,  and  to  make  honourable,  temples  not  fashioned 
by  human  hands.  Those  old  builders  often  worked 
in  the  dark ; some  corner,  some  piece  was  allotted 
to  them,  and  into  this  they  put  all  their  skill, 
all  their  genius,  caring  little  for  fame  or  reward, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  whole  plan  which  they  would 
never  live  to  see  accomplished.  Only  this  was  their 
task,  to  beautify  the  little  part  entrusted  to  them. 
And  because  they  were  faithful  to  this  ideal,  we, 
who  gaze  on  their  completed  work,  do  grateful  homage 
to  those  nameless  craftsmen,  long  since  dead  and  for- 
gotten. Nay  more,  we  will  make  it  our  aim  to  labour 
as  they  laboured ; to  live  not  basely  and  selfishly  in 
the  Present,  but  nobly  and  truly,  with  the  Future  ever 
before  our  eyes ; so  that  in  days  to  come  Englishmen 
shall  still  be  able  to  say,  “ See ! This  our  fathers  did 
for  us ! ” and  generations,  yet  unborn,  will  deem  that 
we  were  faithful  to  ourselves  and  to  them. 


THE  END 


Printed  by  Ballantyne,  Hanson  &■'  Co. 
Edinburgh  London 


